


I'll Be Looking at the Moon

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: 2018 Captain America/Iron Man Big Bang, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Avengers Vol. 3 (1998), Bathing/Washing, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bottom Tony Stark, Brainwashing, Canon Divergence - Avengers Vol. 3, Canon Divergence - Iron Man Vol. 3, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America Vol. 3 (1998), Chinese Food, Comfort Food, Comfort/Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Depressed Tony Stark, Depression, Diners, Disordered Eating, Dog Tags, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom Tony Stark, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama & Romance, Eating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Intercrural Sex, Iron Man Vol. 3 (1998), Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Oral Sex, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Brainwashing, Past Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Presumed Dead, Protectiveness, References to Depression, Romance, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Snacks & Snack Food, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Sub Steve Rogers, Sub Tony Stark, Subspace, Suicidal Thoughts, Swing Dancing, Switching, Temporary Character Death, The Crossing (Marvel Comics), Thor's Comics Ye Olde Butcherede Englishe, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Top Steve Rogers, Top Tony Stark, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 18:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 143,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: All the Avengers have returned from the alternate dimension where Franklin Richards sent them after they sacrificed themselves to defeat Onslaught--except Iron Man.  Steve Rogers, though, believes that he's still out there, and resolves to look for him, refusing to give up on the idea that Tony Stark is out there somewhere, alive.





	1. In All The Old Familiar Places

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There are mentions of Tony's drinking, and he gets fairly close to drinking again a few times, but stays sober. There's also a lot of talking and thinking about PTSD, anxiety, and depression, all of which Tony is currently suffering from and Steve thinks about how much he has suffered from before now; Tony is deep in self-hatred and unhealthy thinking, and routinely thinks terrible things about himself, Steve has some anger issues, and there is violence, but not between them. The plot deals with the plot of The Crossing, where Tony was brainwashed into murdering three people and attacking Jan, and then dies fighting Kang, but the character death all happened in the past. There is explicit sex and a mention that Tony might like subbing (and that Steve has also subbed in the past and enjoyed it) but there's no explicit d/s or BDSM in the fic itself. Tony also vomits more than once and thinks about food in a way reminiscent of disordered eating.
> 
> Check out the gorgeous art by essouffle [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637606) and the gorgeous art by rojhaz [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16648148)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for some of the dialogue in this chapter goes to Kurt Busiek, from the first issue of Avengers vol. 3.

That night, Steve woke up, sweating, out of another dream about Tony.  
  
None of them were exactly the same.  In some of them, he held Tony’s dying body in his arms as he gasped and struggled for breath, the light fading from his blue eyes until he lay there, lifeless, anguish still writ large across his body even in death, with none of the peace Steve had always heard, always believed, death was meant to bring.  
  
Exactly how it had really happened.  
  
In some of them, Tony stood over Steve as he sprawled on the floor, rather than how Tony must have stood over Jan or Marilla or the other Yellowjacket before he attacked them, before he tried to kill them, a crazed look in his eyes and a twisted angry snarl on his face, repulsor trained on Steve’s chest, even as Steve cried out to him, told him it wasn’t him, that this wasn’t him, that it was Kang, that he could beat this, even as the light of the armor’s repulsor flared bright before his eyes and in another moment he knew the pain would come—  
  
In some of them he simply searched for Tony, endlessly, thinking he saw him on the street, or in a building, but it was never him, or he faded into nothing so much as mist, like one of the Sidhe in one of his ma’s old stories, the second Steve touched him.  
  
This time the dream had started almost as if Steve had woken up naturally, with him heading downstairs, saying hello to Jarvis, pouring himself a glass of orange juice, and finding Tony sleeping on the couch in the living room, still dressed in his shirtsleeves and vest, when he went out to turn on the morning news.  
  
In reality, Steve would have rushed to him, ecstatic to see him alive, exclaimed over him, would have told him, see, I _knew_ you were alive, just like the rest of us, I just knew it, I never gave up on you, Shellhead—but in the dream, he felt only a slight surprise that Tony hadn’t made it upstairs the night before, as if of course Tony was there in the mansion with him, as if none of them had ever died, as if nothing with Kang or Onslaught or any of the rest of it had ever happened, along with a deep, warm sense of fondness, the one that welled up inside him whenever he thought of Tony, had for years—but when he went there to wake him, squeezed his shoulder, there was no response, and then Steve shook him, and when there was still nothing, then he felt for his pulse, noticed the pallor of his skin, the grayness of his lips, and realized he was dead, and everything in him froze into ice at once, like dying himself, just like it had the first time, when it had really happened, and—  
  
And he’d woken up, gasping, into the gray, pre-dawn light of early morning.  He groaned, swiped an arm across his forehead, and rolled over.  The clock beside his bed read 3:30 am.  Steve sighed and let his head fall into his pillow again, shoving both arms under it and pulling it close.  
  
3 am, again.  He hadn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time without being woken up by nightmares.  Not—not since . . . well, not since they’d come back from the other world, the world where Franklin Richards had sent them after Onslaught had apparently killed them all, and Steve had realized that Tony was seemingly nowhere to be found.  That he hadn’t come back with the rest of them at all, not so far as anyone knew, not as the teenager he’d been when he died against Onslaught, or as the adult Steve vaguely remembered from the other world.  
  
That other world.  The one Franklin Richards had created for them, in his mind, the one he’d sent them all to.  Tony had been there, too.  Steve knew he had.  He knew it.  
  
Little as he remembered of the other world and what had happened there (vague images of Sam, of an older black man giving him the shield, of a young woman with auburn hair he’d called Bucky, like it had happened in a dream) he was sure, sure that Tony had been there.  Tony an adult, a man his own age, just like he had been since the beginning, flashing that insouciant smile as he pulled off the helmet of the armor, gesturing the same way he always did when he was armored up, explaining tech with the broad gestures, the way he cocked his head—he knew he remembered it.  
  
He wasn’t certain of much, when it came to how they’d returned to their own world from that other one, but he _knew_ that, he knew he remembered Tony there, not quite like he’d always been, but adult, not the teenager they’d pulled from that other dimension to help them against Kang’s control of their own Tony, not the one who had died with the rest of them, fought with the rest of them against Onslaught.  
  
The one they’d pulled into their own time back when their own Tony had died, sacrificed himself to stop Kang, and there had been nothing Steve could do.  It had felt like everything crashing down on him at once, leaving an echoing void where Tony had once been a firm foundation, leaving him feeling cut adrift in a way he hadn’t even quite expected, to discover that Tony was a murderer ( _Tony_ , Iron Man, his first friend in this time—the man who’d given Steve a home), even though—he’d never really believed Tony had become some kind of murderer, never lost hope in him, in the friend he’d always known was a good man, a hero—and then, the breath of hope blooming heady and dizzying, the discovery of Kang’s mind-control, and Tony returning to help them, the one moment when Steve had believed it might really be all right, that Tony might have come back to them as he had been—but then all of that, gone in an instant.  Tony gasping out his dying breaths in his arms, his face a rictus of agony, not even really seeing Steve ( _So sorry . . ._ , he had said, his voice a rough, hoarse ruin of what it should have been, tears trickling down his face, eyes barely tracking, _for what I did to Marilla . . . to Amanda . . . to all of you . . . Sorry for everything . . . ._ )—Steve had lived it again and again, a thousand times since then, the way Tony had gone limp in his arms, the way he’d wiped those tears from Tony’s sightless eyes, watching them glisten on his own glove, against the red leather, the way he’d brushed them away with his knuckles, one last gentle caress to Tony’s face, just under his eyes, before he shut Tony’s eyes, one last time.  
  
But he had been there.  Tony had been there, in that other world, not dead, but alive.  Steve remembered it.  He knew he did.  
  
And of course there was the boy, Tony’s teenage self, the one who had taken his place after Tony had died to stop Kang.  He had fought with them, he had been an Avenger, too, and he’d certainly been there in that final battle against Onslaught that had sent all the rest of them to that other world.  He’d sacrificed himself to stop Onslaught as surely as any of the rest of them had, and they, all of them, the others, they had all returned since.  Clint—Jan—Namor—Wanda—Sam—Hank.  Not Thor, no one knew where Thor was, either, but the Fantastic Four, Sue and Reed and Ben and Johnny, all of the others had returned.  
  
So why wouldn’t Tony be here with them now?  Why would only Tony be left out?  Why would he be passed over, out of all of them?  Because of the things he’d done when Kang had controlled him?  It couldn’t be.  That—it just wasn’t fair.  He’d died nothing more than a boy, an innocent boy, that teenager from Tony’s other timeline, bright-eyed and eager and still willing to sacrifice himself in the fight against Onslaught because he was Tony, still Tony, and just as much of a hero as the older version of him Steve had known had always been.  
  
He had died with all of them, surely he would have come back with all of them, too—but maybe the Tony who had come back was still that boy, lost and confused somewhere?  And if he was, Steve owed it to him to find him, to help him, to be at least some kind of mentor, maybe.  Fat lot of good Steve as a mentor, or a friend, had done Bucky, of course, and so maybe he’d do Tony more harm than good, but surely he had to try.  Surely he owed him at least that much.  After everything Tony had done for him . . .  
  
Steve pushed himself up out of the bed with a curse and a punch to his pillow, though it had done nothing to actually draw his frustration.  He just had to punch something, and it was a better option than the wall.  He walked over to the window and rested his forearms against it, feeling the chill of the glass through his arms, sending a shiver down his arms, a liquid chill that quivered all the way down his spine, with the cold night air on his bare skin.  He’d slept in nothing but an old pair of pajama pants.  He rested his forehead on his arms and blew out his breath, watching it fog up the window as if from far away.  
  
If he was honest with himself, he had hoped—he had wanted—well, he’d wanted Tony back.  His Tony, the one he’d known, his first real friend in this time, Iron Man, his Shellhead, his old friend, a man his age, not a boy a decade his junior, who had reminded him of Bucky in a way that wrenched at his heart.  But if the Tony who had come back was still the teenager—well, he was still Tony, still Iron Man, still an Avenger, and Steve couldn’t, wouldn’t abandon him.  
  
And, most importantly of all—where was he?  Steve refused to believe it, that he hadn’t come back at all.  
  
He sighed, pressed his hand flat against the cool glass.  They were superheroes.  A thousand strange things had happened to all of them.  He’d lost the serum’s strength, his abilities, then been trapped inside the Cosmic Cube to battle the Red Skull and reborn with his old strength back.  They’d been transported to some other world, where they’d all been different and lived different lives, and returned as if they’d never gone at all.  Surely—surely the world could spare some strange miracle, something just as bizarre, for Tony, too.  Tony deserved that much.  He had to be out there somewhere.  
  
There was so much they hadn’t ever really had a chance to talk about.  Steve couldn’t stand that.  The drinking—he’d never—never told Tony—never had a chance to tell him, really tell him, how proud he was of him for that, for beating it—Tony’s fight to destroy all the other armors using his stolen technology, that fight they’d had over Tony’s tech being passed around out of his control, then the Kree Supreme Intelligence—the way Tony had apologized to him for that, for everything that had happened, had Steve ever—ever told him how much that had meant to him—there was so much that had gone unsaid.  No, not that had _gone_ unsaid, as if he’d had nothing to do with it, as if it had just somehow happened.  That Steve, stupidly, had left unsaid.  That Steve had never been able to bring himself to say.  That Steve had told himself that oh, Tony understood, he didn’t have to say it out loud, as if, what, he’d drive him away if he told him something as simple as appreciation for Tony’s courage, his honesty, as a friend?  
  
No, more like he’d just been making things easier on himself.  
  
Steve’s hands formed into fists against the glass.  He’d been such an idiot, to think that they’d—that he’d—have the time.  When did they ever have the time?  Every time they fought could have been their last.  When had he just let—let things slip away from him?  From them?  
  
But no, because Tony had to be out there, somewhere.  He was.  Steve knew he was.  They’d all come back.  Tony was one of them.  He was out there, somewhere, still.  He had to be.  
  
They just hadn’t looked for him yet, that was all it came down to.  Steve hadn’t, not yet, not really looked.  
  
Steve turned away from the window and pulled his dogtags over his head out of habit, then pulled on a shirt to head down to the gym.  It was pointless to lie there in bed, awake, and hope for sleep.  He’d learned that by now.  Better to work out his frustrations with some gymnastics and the heavy bag.  If he was ever going to put a new group of Avengers back together, he needed to be in top condition.  
  
The mansion was quiet, so quiet, and cold, echoing around him as he made his way down to the gym, to the extent that Steve consciously tried to quiet his steps.  It felt . . . so wrong, so . . . empty.  Not even like a museum.  It felt like a mausoleum, an echoing shell of the vibrant, living home and headquarters it had been once.  When he ran his hand down the banister, there was dust that came off on his fingers.  It felt so wrong.  Jarvis had always kept the mansion so spotless when they’d all lived there, before.  Steve found himself hunching his shoulders, wrapping his arms around his chest, because he felt so cold, before he let himself into the gym as quietly as he could.  The silence as he flicked the lights on was almost deafening.  He didn’t blame Natasha for disbanding the Avengers, or for letting SHIELD use the mansion, not at all, it was just . . . it all felt so wrong.  
  
Steve took a deep breath and started to limber up.  
  
They’d called an Avengers meeting for later that day, because there’d been attacks on former Avengers all over the world.  They were clearly linked, clearly some kind of problem they had to deal with.  Something was targeting Avengers.  But Steve had to admit, as he flipped over, balanced himself with his arms on the rings, forcing his breathing to go even as he straightened his body out, that he was almost excited by it—a problem, an Avengers problem, a good reason to call everyone back.  Hank and Jan were coming, they’d called in the day before, and just hearing Jan’s voice had sent a thrill through him, made him feel warm all over, the way a cup of hot cocoa on a cold day warmed you up from the inside out.  He’d found himself flushing, stammering like a schoolboy, stumbling over his own words, just because he was so excited to talk to her again, and Hank, to feel something like . . . like the old days.  How it used to be.  He wanted to see Jan again so badly it was like a physical ache inside of him.  (Jan had always been able to motivate him.  To point him in the right direction.  To show him which way to go.)  He wanted to see all of them—Clint, and Wanda, and Pietro, and Hank, and Carol, and Natasha, and Vision.  He’d already seen Sam, but he wanted to see all of them, in the mansion, like it used to be.  Maybe then he’d feel like he’d actually come home again.  
  
And, of course, more than anything, he wanted to see Thor, and Tony.  The two missing Avengers.  The two Avengers no one seemed to know anything about, when it came to where they might be.  The two the news media speculated endlessly had actually been lost to Onslaught for good.  God.  Tony.  
  
And there was that part of him, a part he couldn’t silence, a part that said that what with the alert that had gone out, recalling every Avenger who had ever served back to the mansion, a threat that affected all of them—maybe, just maybe, he’d finally see Tony again.  Thor might not even be on Earth, so God, or maybe Heimdall, only knew if he’d heard.  But the attacks on Avengers had been reported in the press, all over the United States, and outside it, too.  Steve’s arms flexed, and he spun back around again, let his arms push out to hold him right side up this time, as he blew out a long slow breath.  If Tony was around, anywhere, he had to have heard.  And Tony—he wouldn’t ignore that, would he?  Could he?  He was a founding Avenger.  
  
So maybe he’d see Tony again, later that day, even.  The meeting that day was for the founding Avengers.  Well, and Steve, but they counted him as a founding Avenger, they were so kind to him; they always had.  He’d never quite felt as if he deserved it, exactly, but, well, he was close, anyway.  But Tony was, Tony indisputably was, in so many ways Tony, and Jan, they were the founding Avengers.  Part of him believed, felt, that Tony would have to come.  Tony would have to be there.  That he wouldn’t let him down.  Them down.  Not Tony.  
  
So maybe that was it.  Maybe he just had to wait.  
  
Steve let himself swing back, curl into an easy somersault as he dismounted from the rings.  He just wished he could make himself really believe that.  
  
He reached for the tape to wrap his knuckles a little more.  He was going to need that for the bag.  
  
Steve felt better, later on, after he’d been in the gym for a little over three hours.  It was good to work out in the gym in the mansion again, whatever else, and it was clearly in good condition—obviously SHIELD had been making use of those facilities while they’d been using the mansion as a headquarters.  He didn’t want to go for a run and run smack dab into the reporters still milling around endlessly outside, since the rumors of an Avengers meeting had started circulating through the press (God, he definitely didn’t want to talk to any reporters, not yet), so the gymnastics practice and hitting the bag would have to satisfy him.  He’d considered running through a few scenarios in the Avengers practice room, but decided against it.  It felt too strange, without any of the others there, somehow, even though he’d used to run it all the time on his own.  Still, it had been a good workout.  Steve wasn’t quite feeling good enough to sing in the shower, exactly, but he was humming a little, tunelessly, as he stepped out of the shower, rubbing his hair dry with the towel.  He idly checked over the gym, making sure there wasn’t anything too terribly different about it.  Of course, they’d have to do a full scan, at some point—Steve was sure Fury and SHIELD had left some kind of monitoring devices or bugs in the mansion—but he couldn’t find anything on his first cursory search, and he eventually left the gym, stifling a yawn and wondering what time it was.  About 6?  7?  
  
Not an unreasonable time to eat breakfast, anyway.  Steve headed for the kitchen.  It was bright and clean in there, at least, with plenty of signs of Jarvis’s presence in the spotless floor and appliances, cabinets and counters, and the impressive amount of food already stocked.  Steve winced at the sight of the carafe of orange juice and the reminder of the dream that still hadn’t faded from his memory and instead started making himself a pot of coffee, though not without a bit of a pang there, too, remembering when Tony had first bought this needlessly complicated, futuristic-looking coffeemaker for the mansion (a gift, he’d said, laughing and leaning on the counter, from the West Coast Avengers to the East Coast), and Steve had complained that it was overcomplicating something that should be simple, that he’d never be able to figure it out now.  Tony had smiled fondly and stepped up behind him, one arm around Steve in a way that made Steve go warm all over, and patiently started to show him every feature of the thing, how it worked.  He’d talked him through it until Steve had been sure he knew how to work it.  
  
That was the thing about Tony, Steve thought.  He’d always seemed to have time for Steve, even when they’d been on opposite sides of the country.  
  
He just . . . he missed him.  So much.  He had for a long time, but it seemed all the more—wrong, all the more a throbbing wound, when he’d been reuniting with other old friends left and right.  It wasn’t that he was any less happy to see them, God, of course not.  It was just that it made Tony’s absence all the more obvious, by contrast.  
  
Steve sighed, and decided to make himself some bacon, eggs, and toast.  He was getting maudlin, and food was a decent way to distract himself, at least.  He was cooking the eggs when Jarvis came into the kitchen, suit neat as ever but arms filled with grocery bags, and started slightly at seeing him there.  “Master Rogers,” he said.  “I did not expect to see you up so early, or I would have had breakfast ready for you, I assure you.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon, Jarvis,” Steve said.  “You know me; I’m always up early.”  
  
“Well, it had been your habit to run or engage in physical pursuits in the gym at this time,” Jarvis said, smiling a little.  “I’m accustomed to another half hour before you are typically ready for breakfast.”  
  
“I guess that’s fair,” Steve said, shrugging to acknowledge Jarvis’ point.  “Don’t worry, even I can’t screw up bacon and eggs that badly.”  
  
“I seem to remember you burning them to cinders on several memorable occasions,” Jarvis said, then smiled for real.  “It is good to see you again, Master Rogers.”  
  
“Hey, I got distracted,” Steve said, smiling in return, “you can’t hold that against me.  It’s good to see you, too, Jarvis.  It really is.”  He turned around, braced himself with the heel of his hand against the sink, to look back him.  The butler had always been another important part of what had made Avengers Mansion feel like home to Steve, even from the very earliest days.  He’d always gone out of his way to talk to Steve, to welcome him—to make sure he didn’t get too caught up in his own head, rattling around this old place.  He’d been able to talk about the old days, the RAF, and he’d understood Steve wanting to help him do the dishes, sit with him at the kitchen table for some company.  
  
He’d said Tony used to do that too, when he was younger, and at the time, Steve could barely imagine sophisticated, suave, handsome Tony Stark sitting right there where he was sitting.  Now, though, he had no trouble.  He felt his smile turn rueful.  
  
“Life was very much different without the Avengers around, I will say that,” Jarvis said, a shadow of wistful melancholy passing over his face, too.  
  
“Probably safer for you, anyway,” Steve said.  
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Jarvis replied mildly, shooing him back to the stove when Steve stepped forward to help him start putting his groceries away.  “No, no, lest we experience a repeat of the eggs charred to cinders incidents.  You cook.  I may be an old man, but I’m still perfectly capable of putting a few bags of flour into the cupboards.”  Steve sighed, subsided back against the counter with a smile, crossing his arms across his chest to watch for just a moment before he really did need to turn back to his eggs.  “At any rate,” Jarvis said, “my life is certainly much busier with the Avengers in residence again, but also much richer for it, and I must say I’ve always felt more secure knowing the Avengers were on watch than otherwise.  Besides,” he shot Steve a look, “it keeps me young.”  
  
Steve had to chuckle a little at that.  “There is that, I guess,” he said.  “Sorry about all this trouble, what with Hank and Jan coming later.  If we’d planned ahead a little better, we could have given you more warning.”  
  
“It’s no trouble,” Jarvis said.  “What did I just tell you, young man?  And it is only the three of you,” he added, and now he did look melancholy.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, feeling a wave of that same melancholy, as he slid his eggs and bacon onto his plate and poured himself a cup of coffee.  He took another cup down from the cupboard, found the teakettle, and put some hot water on for Jarvis, too, waving off the other man’s protests as he did.  It was the least he could do.  “Three out of six.  Only half of us.”  He sighed, sipped his coffee, tried not to sound too hopeful when he looked up at Jarvis, tried not to look too hesitant.  “Have you heard from Tony?”  
  
Jarvis did look sad, then, and old, the expression carving deep grooves into his skin, above his eyes and around his mouth.  “No,” he said. “Nothing at all.  No word.  I fear Mr. Stark lost to us for good.”  But then he seemed to force himself to brighten, putting away cans of coffee in the pantry.  “But he has been thought dead before, only to reappear.  It may be that some reason, some problem of his own has kept him away.”  
  
Steve felt a surge of hope at that.  Hey, if Jarvis thought so too—“You think so?” he asked, and he couldn’t quite keep his eagerness out of his voice.  “I’ve been thinking that, too.  I mean, he disappeared with the rest of us.  He should have come back at the same time.”  
  
“I have thought of him often,” Jarvis said, looking down at his bag of groceries thoughtfully, sadly, before he picked up a jug of milk and took it over to the refrigerator, and Steve sat down at the table to actually start eating his breakfast.  “Both how he was in his—madness, under Kang’s control, when you found young master Tony from that other timeline to fight him, and then, well, having that boy here was like having the old days back again, when I helped to raise him.”  
  
“As good as raised him, you mean,” Steve said, after he finished a forkful of eggs.  “Tony told me a hundred times that you were the one who raised him, Jarvis, not anyone else.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Jarvis said, obscurely.  “I did my best.  Do you think it might be the young master who returned to us, then?  As he was when the rest of you all disappeared?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Steve said.  “I’d like to, but I just don’t.”  But he’d been an adult in that other world.  Then again, Bucky had been a girl there. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.  
  
And maybe he hadn’t come back at all.  He sighed, pushed a piece of bacon around the plate with his fork.  
  
“Even without Master Tony,” Jarvis said, “it is very good to have the Avengers back again.”  The smile he gave Steve was wide and warm, and Steve shrugged, smiled a little sheepishly, hiding his face in his coffee cup, self-conscious with how good that had made him feel.  
  
Steve spent the rest of the day checking over the house for bugs, alterations, and anything else Fury and SHIELD might have left behind, though he was sure he wasn’t doing even a quarter of the job Tony would have been able to do.  He called Natasha, hoping to get some idea of what to look for, but she didn’t pick up through any of the numbers he had for her, and half of them had been disconnected, so he ended up doing it mostly on his own.  Jarvis helped him, though, and so it went faster than it might have, as they talked, reminisced and talked about the possibility for a new team, changes they might make, talked over things that had happened in the absence of the Avengers.  Jarvis didn’t seem to want to talk about what he himself had been up to, but Steve could understand that.  It was incredibly good just to talk to him, all the same.  He was about half done when Jan and Hank called ahead to tell him they were on their way.  He put on his uniform and his shield, thinking that at the very least, he could do this thing right, he could be ready for them, because if he was restarting the Avengers, he should be ready, dressed as Captain America.  Shouldn’t he?  
  
Jan’s welcome was everything Steve could have ever hoped for.  “ _Steve_!” she practically shouted loud enough they could hear it in Times Square, and threw herself across a five foot gap to land squarely in his arms.  He grinned, could feel it was from ear to ear, getting caught up in her joyous enthusiasm himself, enough to spin her around before he set her back down on her feet, bags and all.  
  
“Jan!” he said.  “You’re looking incredible, I have to say.  France must agree with you.”  
  
“Of course it agrees with me,” Jan said with a wink, “and so does Hank.”  She spun around enough to somehow link Hank’s arm with hers and drag him forward.  “It’s been great catching up again,” she gave Hank the kind of significant look that rose the temperature of the room about ten degrees, and Steve felt a self-conscious flush rise up the back of his own neck, no doubt turning his ears red, “hasn’t it, honey?”  
  
“Um, yeah,” Hank said, and the smile he gave Jan was frankly adoring, “Yeah, it has.  Uh.  Hi, Steve.”  
  
“Hey, there, fella,” Steve said, and held out a hand for Hank to shake.  “It’s been too long, High-Pockets.”  
  
“It really has,” Hank said.  “I hear it’s just the three of us, today?”  
  
“Well, the Hulk’s not exactly returning my calls,” Steve said.  “So yeah, the three of us, and Jarvis.”  
  
Jan was looking around the hall, peering into the doors, nooks, and crannies, as if she expected to see something hiding back there.  “What about Tony?” she said.  “I was sure he’d be here, with you.”  
  
Really?  With him?  She had been?  Steve felt a tightness, quickly building in his throat, and was abruptly afraid he might burst into tears.  He swallowed hard, heavily, against it instead, but his voice still came out scratchy and raw.  “I haven’t heard from Iron Man at all,” he said.  “And I don’t know anyone who has.”  
  
_Oh_ , Jan’s mouth formed without any sound.  
  
“Oh, no,” Hank said, and put a hand on her shoulder.  “You don’t think—”  
  
“I don’t know what to think,” Steve said, and it came out short, brusque, angrier than he’d wanted it to be.  
  
“And Thor?” Jan said.  
  
“Same song, different verse,” Steve said, then rubbed at the back of his neck.  “But that, it—it didn’t surprise me, it’s almost like something happened, in—”  
  
“In the other world,” Jan finished, sounding thoughtful.  “Yes.  You’re right.  It’s like I somehow knew that Thor might not be here.  Jeez, though, I hope he’s all right.  Both of them.”  She looked at Steve.  “Tony will be here, Steve,” she said.  “He’s a founding Avenger.  I mean, the Maria Stark Foundation got this place back from SHIELD, right?  So . . . .”  
  
“Tony doesn’t have anything to do with the day to day running of the Foundation, though,” Steve said, unwillingly.  He remembered as much, from the time Tony had been drinking, and he was sure Jan remembered the same thing.  
  
He’d thought he was dead then, too.  He’d been—he’d been so afraid, so sure that Tony had been dead . . . .  
  
And the whole time he hadn’t been.  
  
“He set it up so it could run indefinitely in his absence, no matter what happened to him,” he finished.  
  
Jan made a face.  “It must have been back when he thought he was dying, yeah,” she said.  “I, well, I mean, the first time.”  Hank looked concerned, then sad, like he wanted to say something, but then he didn’t just bit his lip and squeezed Jan’s shoulder.  But Steve knew what he wasn’t saying, what none of them wanted to say.  It was the obvious thing _to_ say—that Tony might very well have been right to believe that he would die prematurely.  He had, after all.  So they should all probably have been grateful for his foresight.  
  
Jarvis rescued Steve from having to figure out something to say by appearing to usher them all upstairs, though Jan asked for a snack and he led her into the kitchen for a moment.  A few moments later, Jan returned, munching on a handful of dates and nuts with apparently no concern for her perfect lipstick, and Jarvis led them all upstairs into a warm, well-lit study, a fire in the fireplace.  A picture of the team, the original team, with the Hulk, and Tony in his shining golden armor, hung over the mantle.  Steve found his eyes lingering on it as they all stepped inside.  
  
“So,” he said, turning to Hank.  “How’s the research going?  Are you having any luck with the size-changing problems you had a while back?”  
  
“Oh, have I,” Hank said, grinning.  “Jan, honey?”  She shook her head, smiling, and waved for him to go on, so Steve wasn’t surprised at all when Hank pulled his familiar helmet on, and grew—and grew—and grew.  The reinforced floor didn’t even shake, not even when Hank used the back of a sofa to brace one foot and linked his arm over the chandelier.  “See?” he said, gesturing grandly with his other hand.  “Ta-da!”  
  
“Very nice,” Steve said, looking up at him now, as Jan applauded with a laugh, then tossed herself down on the same sofa, in front of the fire.  “It’s good to have you back, for sure—Giant-Man?”  
  
“That works,” Hank said.  
  
“Tea, gentlemen?  Lady?” Jarvis said, appearing again out of nowhere, with a tea tray this time.  
  
“That’d be great, Jarvis,” Steve said with gratitude.  
  
“Honestly,” Jan said.  “This seems overdue, somehow—we’ve been back for a while, but it took this . . . situation . . . to bring us together.”  
  
“It is overdue,” Steve said.  Long overdue, in his opinion.  They’d let it go too long.  He’d let it go too long.  “But, well, I’ve been overseas.  I just got back to the U.S. a week or so ago.”  And he’d come straight back to New York, and found himself returning to Avengers Mansion a few days later.  Fury had come to see him, told him he’d returned it to the Maria Stark Foundation.  Steve had called Tony, excited and hoping to share the news with his old friend, and that, well, that had been when he’d realized.    
  
Realized that Tony was nowhere to be found.  That no one he spoke to seemed to have any idea whether he’d come back at all.  Steve had come there, to Avengers Mansion, after that, and found himself there, echoing through the empty halls, except for Jarvis, ever since.    
  
That had been before the situation Jan was talking about, though, the attacks on Avengers that had started happening just a few days before.  
  
“And as for Hank and I, well, you know that,” Jan said, “—thank you, Jarvis—  We’ve been in Cape D’Antibes, catching up on the years we spent apart.”  She took a sip of the tea.  
  
“Tea, sir?” Jarvis asked Steve, something like . . . understanding? Compassion?  Definitely fondness, and warmth, in his eyes, and Steve smiled a little ruefully back.  Jarvis really was too good to him.  
  
“Thank you,” he said, and accepted the cup, smiling as Jarvis went on to offer an extra big one to Hank, and Hank thanked him.  
  
The thunder cracked outside, and a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows.  Steve found himself looked up, taking his teacup with him, as he leaned against the wall, looked out.  It had started to pick up sometime in the afternoon, but while they’d been getting reacquainted and Jan had been chattering about the south of France, the blustery day had turned into a bonafide thunderstorm.  The bulletproof, shatterproof glass in the windows was too firmly laid in to shake, of course, but Steve felt like he could feel each bolt of lightning outside in his bones, down to his boots.  
  
It made him think of Thor.  He took a sip of his tea and sat down again.  “Quite a storm out there,” he said, nodding outside.  
  
“You’re telling me,” Jan said.  “Glad we didn’t get caught in that!  But we should get down to business, shouldn’t we?”  
  
They should, Steve knew.  It was just—he missed Tony.  He couldn’t help feeling like he should be standing there, red and gold armor gleaming—probably a brand new model, for the occasion, over there by the fire, or by the window, looking out.  For God’s sake, this was his house, or it had been, first.  He sighed.  
  
“The attacks happened all over the world,” Hank said, “and they involved all manner of bizarre creatures—but only Avengers were attacked, and the creatures apparently vanished, all at the same time, which is suspicious as hell, if you ask me—”  
  
“The attacks have to be related, Giant-Man,” Steve said.  “There’s no way that a coincidence like that happens, bizarre creatures attacking Avengers all over the world, then vanishing all at once, and it isn’t part of some bigger problem.”  
  
“The descriptions of the creatures,” Jan said, resting her chin on her hand.  “They all sounded . . . kind of familiar, don’t you think?”  
  
“Yes,” Steve said, slowly, thinking back.  “The Vanna, the power of the air . . . Gullin, the Boar-God, the Demon Riders—Wanda, Pietro, and Crystal, they were attacked in a Transian restaurant in Manhattan, right?  They mentioned the flying trolls of Thryhem.”  He had to admit, it definitely sounded like they were playing to a theme.  “Asgard?”  
  
“Exactly,” Jan said.  “I recognize all of them from Thor’s old stories, don’t you?  He told the one about the flying trolls of Thryhem at least a hundred times—I could probably recite it in my sleep!”  
  
Steve smiled, though a little sadly.  It was a good story, too.  Thor told it amazingly well, anyway.  He thought he’d laughed at the part about the flying haunch of wild boar every time.  It reminded him how much he missed Thor—and Tony, too.  Tony had always laughed even harder than he had, cuffed Thor round the shoulder and teased him about being too impulsive for his own good.  Tony had always liked to listen to Thor’s stories.  Funny, for someone who claimed to hate magic as much as he always did.  Had.  No, did.  He was out there somewhere, Steve knew he was.  But Thor and Tony had always been close.  “You’re right,” he said.  “So, I guess our first order of business is to figure out how these creatures have come to Earth, and why they’re here.  Sounds like Loki could be the—”  He stopped.  There was a sound—the wind had picked up, and through it, he could hear something.  The storm, building?  It was definitely building, howling around the building like the banshees in his ma’s old stories, like the shrieks of the damned, God, but there was something more than that.  “Wait,” he said.  “Do you hear that?”  
  
“Hear what, Cap?” Jan asked, putting her teacup down.  
  
“The wind!” he said, taking a step forward, reaching for his shield.  
  
“I hear it, too,” Hank said.  “It’s building—far beyond the intensity of the storm, beyond natural limits—”  
  
Thor, Steve thought, his heart thudding in his chest, even though it wasn’t rational.  For all he knew, it was the vanna, or whatever they were.  
  
But then the windows blew open, and a booming voice, though cracked and roughened with weariness and strain, echoed through the room. “Thy questions hath answers, Avengers,” Thor proclaimed, foot on the windowsill, face bearded and rugged and cloak stained and tattered as if with long travel, as all the shatterproof glass in the windows shattered with a boom of thunder, “but answers, I fear, that may ring a deathknell for Midgard, and all of life therein!”  The wind swept in behind him, like a wolf, living and hungry and wild, battering Steve’s exposed cheeks, whipping around the room, blowing Jan’s hair into her face.  
  
Never let it be said that Thor didn’t know how to make a goddamn entrance, Steve thought, half ruefully, even as he gasped out, “Thor!”  
  
Score one point for irrationality and hope.  
  
Thor immediately stumbled forward, and Steve instinctively moved to support him.  Thor’s big arm flopped limply over his back, and even with Steve’s support, his heavy weight and inertia almost sent both of them tumbling to the floor.  Thor silvery helmet fell off with a clang against the floor, rolling away from Steve’s feet.  Steve grunted in effort, leaning in to brace himself more firmly against Thor’s chest, even as Thor practically groaned, “I . . . I have traveled far . . . .”  His voice was little more than a rumbling rasp.  
  
“Easy— _easy_ there, Thunder God,” Steve said, even as Thor’s weight bore him down to one knee.  Thankfully, Hank was there a moment later, still giant-sized, giving Thor a hand from the other side, taking some of his weight.  
  
“Jarvis,” Jan said, pressing the button on the intercom system that would contact the butler.  “Bring up a flagon of mead—and some of that cold mutton I saw in the refrigerator!  Thor’s here, and he looks half-starved!”  
  
“I thank thee, Janet . . . “ Thor mumbled, his head still nodding, drooping down heavily between his shoulders where Steve and Hank supported him, “. . . but food is the least of my concerns.”  
  
“What do you mean, Thor?” Steve asked.  It was obvious something was going on, with an entrance like that, but the question was what?  Thor could sometimes go a bit far with the cryptic Norse god routine if you didn’t get in there and ask him what was going on right off the bat.  
  
“Enough!” Thor said, finally pushing Steve away with one arm, but Steve was glad to feel the strength in it.  “I can stand—I need not be bodily supported, like some ancient, ailing crone!”  Steve was aware of Jan shrinking down to her Wasp size, flying over to hover above them, as Thor went on, “The world doth face great peril—and the mighty Thor shall not prove unequal to the challenge!”  
  
“That’s the second time you’ve said the Earth’s in trouble, Thor,” Steve said, starting to feel the calm settle over him that always came on him in a crisis, the low thrum of adrenaline.  “What can we do to help?”  
  
“Help?” Thor practically snarled.  “Aye, I did come here seeking aid—seeking companions with whom to face the coming darkness.  But—thou art _mortals_.  And the danger—”  
  
Hey, who did he think he was talking to?  Were they Avengers or not?  “You let us worry about the danger, Thor,” Steve said.  “Just tell us what to do.”  They weren’t about to back down, not if all of Earth was in danger.  
  
“I—had near forgot thy easy courage, Captain America,” Thor said, but Steve just waved it off.  It wasn’t like the rest of them weren’t brave.  Tony would have been saying the same thing if he were there.  “And the rest,” Thor said, “all of thee sayest the same?”  
  
“Of course,” Jan said.  “Iron Man would say the same thing if he were here, too.”  Steve smiled a little, wistfully, but pleased that she’d echoed his thoughts.  “We’re Avengers, aren’t we?”  
  
Exactly.  “Whatever it takes,” Steve said, “whatever the threat—we’ll face it together.”  He held his hand out, and Hank put his big one on top of his.  
  
“That’s what this team is for, right?” he said, before Thor laid his heavy hand on top of both of theirs.  
  
“Aye,” he said.  “Aye, verily.”  
  
“That’s the way it’s always been,” Jan added, flying down and adding her tiny hand on top of Thor’s, “and that’s the way it’ll always be!”  
  
The door opened.  “Sirs, Madame Wasp,” came Jarvis’s voice, “I brought—oh.  Oh, my.”  They looked up, to see him there with a tray with a massive leg of mutton and a flagon of what had to be mead, on a tray.  Something changed in his eyes, then, and he said, “What is it?  What’s wrong?”  
  
“A threat most dire, good Jarvis,” Thor said.  “An enemy too great for any of us—and yea, too great for even we five together!  Once more, then, the word must be spread, and the battle-clarion must be sounded.  In every corner of Midgard, then—and the heavens themselves—let the cry ring out—Avengers Assemble!”  
  
As these things went, it was quite a declaration, Steve thought.  He definitely couldn’t have done better himself.  And he felt the thrill of it go through him, felt himself go hot, the thrill of it in his chest as he took a breath that expanded it, a spike of adrenaline jumping through him.  It was so good to hear those words again, even if it felt a little strange not to be saying them himself.  
  
Avengers Assemble.  The Avengers were back.  They were going to put a new team together.  
  
It felt like what he’d been waiting for.  It felt _good_.  
  
He just wished Tony were there with them.  He’d been one of the founding Avengers.  He should be there, to help put the team back together.  He just—he should.  It didn’t feel quite right without him there.  
  
But it did feel better than the world not having Avengers, and them not having a plan to put the team back together, that was for sure.  And it was so, so good to have Thor there with them again, to have him back, to know he wasn’t dead.  The relief felt like a breath of fresh air, or a second wind, a weight lifted off Steve’s chest where he hadn’t even realized it had been pressing down.  
  
Steve spent the rest of the day going through the list, sending out messages, in the monitor room.  Over the years, they’d built up quite a collection of Avengers and former Avengers, and he felt it was the least he could do to make sure no one got missed.  Besides, it was no hardship—he enjoyed doing it, was grateful to have the chance to be doing something, and if that thing was a chance to bring all of them together, to put the Avengers back together—well, sign him up.  
  
He put contacting Tony off, and off, because, well, no one had heard from him.  No one had any idea where he might be, how to contact him.  Steve sure didn’t.  Normally he’d have asked Jarvis, because hell, Jarvis had practically raised him, if anyone would know it would probably be him, but, of course, Jarvis had been completely open with Steve about not knowing where Tony was any better than he did, or if he was even alive.  So he put it off and put it off, sending messengers to the other Avengers, but eventually he was left looking at Tony’s name on his list.  _Tony Stark, Iron Man_.  He ran his gloved thumb over the words, watching the red leather brush over them, as if he could have touched Tony that way.  
  
“What ails thee, my brother?” Thor’s booming voice came, and Steve looked up from where he was standing in front of the monitors to see him descending the stairs into the basement room.  He had been carrying messengers to some of the harder-to-reach Avengers—he’d recently contacted Hercules, and, well, if the two gods had used that as an excuse for a brawl, Thor had probably enjoyed that.  Thor himself seemed to be feeling much better about things since he’d had about three good meals, since they’d started getting the word out.  Steve knew how he felt.  He’d always felt better when he was thinking about a new Avengers team coming together, too.  Hell, he always felt better once he’d eaten, himself, come to think of it.  
  
He thought about denying it, saying nothing was wrong, but surely Tony deserved better of him than that.  “I just,” he started, then sighed.  “It’s Iron Man,” he said, finally.  “Tony.  Nobody seems to know where he is.”  
  
Thor frowned, came over beside him and put one hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “He did not return with the heroic host from yon other world?”  
  
“That’s just it,” Steve said.  “I don’t know.  I don’t see why he wouldn’t have.  I mean, he was there.”  He swallowed, looked at Thor, not wanting to seem uncertain, but—but it seemed as if Thor remembered it more clearly than any of the rest of them, and he had to ask.  “Wasn’t he?”  
  
“Aye, Tony Stark wast present there, forsooth,” Thor said, sounding grave, and settling himself against one of the consoles to cross his arms in front of him.  “As Iron Man.  Thou dost not remember wrongly.”  
  
That was . . . a relief.  So much of a relief that it surprised him.  It swept through Steve with so much power that his knees almost went weak, and he had to brace himself on the console, feeling cold and flushed at the same time.  Good.  Good.  He hadn’t imagined it—he wasn’t . . . lying to himself just because it was what he wanted to believe.  He swallowed.  “Well, then, don’t you think it’s strange that no one seems to know where he is?” he asked Thor, and his voice came out lower, scratchier, than he would have liked.  
  
“Aye, passing strange indeed,” Thor said, sounding grave.  “I wonder what hath transpired, and if some fell influence at work bears the blame.”  
  
“Exactly,” Steve said, in relief and gratitude, feeling himself begin to smile, just slightly, because finally someone was saying it.  “You said that you—you were thrown out into some other dimension fighting Doom, right, Thor?  Maybe something like that happened to Tony?”  
  
“If it did, I fear greatly for him,” Thor said with a sigh, “for Anthony Stark, for all his heroism and great bravery, is no more than mortal, and I must needs wonder if he could withstand what I didst suffer and live.  But perhaps it is merely that he returned to Midgard in some most unexpected place.”  He added, almost more gently than before, “One mightest say that our friend’s existence hath been . . . troubled of late, even before the travails of the other world.  Hast thou contacted the other warrior who took on himself the mantle of Iron Man for a time?”  
  
“James Rhodes?” Steve asked.  “The War Machine?”  
  
Thor nodded.  “A doughty warrior indeed,” he said.  “And more than that, most loyal to his friend and shield-brother.”  
  
“You’re right,” Steve said, paging through the files.  “I should contact Jim, to start with.  I have an address for him, at least.  Last I heard, he’d started a salvage company out in California . . . here it is.”  He pulled out the sheet of paper, running his eyes down it and searching for a phone number.  
  
“Hast thou considered,” Thor said, and then stopped.   “Perhaps,” he said, almost carefully, “Anthony is no longer with us.  Or no longer wishes to return.  He committed great crimes, last he fought at our sides.”  
  
“That wasn’t him,” Steve said, and he had to struggle not to clench the paper in his fist.  He took a deep breath, forced himself to smooth it out again.  “That wasn’t his fault.  It was Kang’s mind control; you know that as well as I do.  He fought free of it, too—he sacrificed himself to save all of us, everyone, from Kang’s plans.  And then his younger self, his teenaged self from that other timeline, fought with us, too, sacrificed himself to stop Onslaught just like the rest of us!”  
  
“Easy, Captain,” Thor said, catching Steve’s shoulders.  “Verily, I do not say this to impugn the honor of our friend Iron Man.  But many times a warrior may feel a defeat more keenly than that warrior’s fellows hold it against him.  Or her.  Anthony Stark is a man of deep feeling, wouldst thou not agree?  Perhaps whilst thee and I mayest forgive, he doth not forgive himself.  Would it be so easy for thee to forget, Steven, if thou wert forced to commit murder despite thine own will?”  
  
Steve swallowed hard, caught his breath and forced himself to blow it out again, made himself think about what Thor was saying rather than just reacting to it.  “No,” he said.  “Of course not.  I—I couldn’t.  You’re right.”  God, he didn’t even want to think about it.  The thought was—well, it was sickening.  Was Thor right?  Was that why Tony had disappeared?  
  
The thought was unaccountably upsetting.  Surely Tony understood that it hadn’t been his fault, that they wouldn’t hold it against him.  They’d all been there, all heard how Kang had made it more than obvious that he’d been controlling Tony the whole time, forcing him to carry out Kang’s plans.  Why wouldn’t he come back?  Let Steve see him again?  He hadn’t been . . . he knew he’d argued with Tony in the past, been harsh with him, but surely that wouldn’t make him think . . . .  He couldn’t think Steve blamed him for any of this.  That was just ridiculous.  
  
Thor squeezed his shoulder.  “Send messages to the War Machine,” he said.  “And also to Lady Pepper, and his other friends.  If he does not appear, after we have dealt with this threat, we shall go out and look for him.”  
  
Steve nodded.  Normally, he thought, he’d have contacted the company itself, but it had been sold to that Japanese company, hadn’t it?  He hadn’t paid as much attention as he probably should have at the time.  He supposed he hadn’t wanted to.  “I’ll do that,” he said.  “And . . . Thor.”  
  
“Aye?” Thor said, smiling at him, even as he brought his hand back away from Steve’s shoulder.  
  
“It’s good to have you back,” Steve said.  
  
Thor’s grin seemed to light up the room in return.  “It is most good to be back,” he said.  “Returning to the Avengers is a homecoming, in truth.”  
  
God, he wasn’t wrong.  It was.  It really was.  Was it any wonder that Steve wanted one of his oldest friends in this time, wanted Tony, to come home, too?  


* * *

  
  
Tony woke up sweating and cold at the same time, curled in one himself, over his stomach, the way he had been practically every night.  Ever since he’d come back.  He groaned, panting, blinking sweat out of his eyes as he stared out at the rest of the room dully, unseeing.  It was dark, black.  He couldn’t see anything but the pictures behind his eyes—of his own repulsor flashing before his eyes, a woman screaming, calling out to him, begging him to stop, hearing his own voice speaking, feeling his own body moving as from far away, as if he was far outside himself—he wasn’t even sure if it was memory, his own memories of what had happened, or imagination, images he had constructed after the fact, after knowing what he’d done.  
  
Either way, he felt the nausea surge in him again, thick and hot and dizzying.  He tried to suppress it, to take deep breaths, to push it down, swallowing against it, but when he closed his eyes all he could see was the body of a blonde woman before him on the floor, sprawled on her back, eyes open and staring sightlessly, a woman he knew, and he stumbled helplessly to his feet, fighting the blankets around him as they tangled with his legs, clung to his body, fighting them back as he nearly fell, feet stumbling and unsteady on the floor and nearly falling out from under him with every step, fighting the nausea back desperately until he made it to the bathroom and retched helplessly into the toilet, feeling bile burn the back of his already raw throat all over again.  His stomach acid couldn’t be doing his throat any favors, or his esophagus, and he could feel the agony of his throat, already raw from the multiple times he’d vomited over the last few weeks, from last night, or this morning; he wasn’t really sure when the nightmares had woken him up the night before.  
  
He felt dizzy, his hands hot and sweaty, sliding on the cool porcelain of the toilet bowl, even as he retched again on a heaving breath that caught on his raw throat and made him gag.  A little bit of bile trickled from between his lips, burning at them.  He heard himself coughing as if from a long way away.  He couldn’t seem to stop seeing the images in front of his eyes, and he felt lightheaded, like he was falling, a sense of vertigo he couldn’t seem to stop.  
  
The position, on his knees in front of the toilet, heaving up his guts, was all too familiar.  It almost felt fitting, considering how many times he’d done just this after a wild bender the night before.  Before he’d been sober.  But he didn’t feel sober now.  He hardly felt sane.  And that scared him, made him shake and hurl again, digging his fingers into the sides of the toilet just for something to hold on to.  
  
Eventually his head stopped spinning.  Eventually Tony let himself sink down to his knees, rest his hot forehead against the coolness of the ceramic edge, feeling himself hot and throbbing and sick, still nauseated, rubbing a hand over his mouth, wiping bile away.  
  
He deserved this, he told himself.  It was the least he could do.  He shouldn’t—he shouldn’t even be alive.  He didn’t know why he was.  He remembered dying.  He should have died.  He knew he should have.  Tony dug his fingernails into his palms and wondered for the thousandth time why he was alive, why he’d even come back at all.  
  
He was glad the others were back, of course.  He’d watched the news about them, seen them on TV, feeling hot emotion throbbing in his chest—he missed them, of course he did.  He missed being one of them.  But he didn’t deserve to be.  He knew that, too.  And he didn’t know what to do with himself—the last thing he needed to do was to make them deal with that.  
  
But he was so proud of them, too.  It was still strange to think about the Avengers as if from the outside.  There’d been times he hadn’t been on the teams, of course, but like this?  Not like this.  Not—never intending to go back.  
  
Tony dragged his hands over his face, then, too drained and shaking, wet all over with cold sweat, to push himself back up to his feet.  He kept thinking about—kept thinking about the, the memories, or imaginings, or whatever they were.  He had—he had done it.  He had killed those people, all three of them, attacked Jan.  He knew he had.  God, he was so—so weak, so unworthy, so.  So awful.  How could he have done that?  How could have let himself do that, be so weak and—and open to it, so easy to use?  The weakest Avenger, that was him.  How could he even want to go back to them, knowing that?  
  
Tony Stark had deserved to die.  And he had.  Tony didn’t want to change that, for anyone.  But he was stuck here, knowing that he was pointlessly, unworthily alive.  
  
He’d thought about changing that, of course.  He’d been tinkering with a suit of armor in his spare time, off and on, and the first few weeks he’d thought a lot about maybe using one of the repulsor gauntlets, turning it on his face and firing.  Thought about slitting his wrists, or maybe really taking the easy way out and taking an overdose of the sleeping pills the doc had prescribed him before Tony had convinced him he really didn’t need anything—anyone looking after him.  Jim hadn’t left him alone until he’d agreed to see someone.  They were still sitting in an unopened bottle in the small cabinet behind the mirror over the sink.  But part of him—a bigger part of him—knew he didn’t deserve that.  He didn’t deserve to be that weak.  He’d died stopping Kang, he’d gotten what he’d deserved, and now he was back, so he needed to—to be useful, to make something of himself again.  
  
But now what?  Tony still didn’t know.  
  
God, he needed a drink.  
  
Tony rubbed his hands over his face again, let himself uncurl enough to rest his back against the top, lay his head down against the rim as it throbbed.  His eyes felt dry and hot, burning as he stared up at the ceiling.  He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was full dark outside, so he hadn’t gotten much sleep.  No wonder his eyes hurt so damn bad.  His head throbbed insistently, feeling fuzzy and hot and too tight, dry and sandy from the inside out.  
  
He groaned and forced himself onto his knees, then, swaying, up to his feet, using the toilet, then the sink, to steady himself.  He flushed it, then turned the sink on, swept water over his face, washed out his mouth, before he filled the glass he’d left there with water from the sink and rinsed his mouth out more thoroughly, spitting it back out, before he finally let himself swallow.  It burned his raw throat all the way down, made him cough and sputter with how much it hurt, but he nursed the glass with little sips until it was empty and didn’t burn quite as much, even if his head still felt hot and heavy and too big on his neck, and his eyes burned.  
  
When he went back into his bedroom, he saw his Avengers identicard beeping on the desk.  He went over to it, turned it over.  
  
The call was from Steve.  
  
It hit him hard, let a fist to his solar plexus, and Tony heard himself give a wounded little oof of air, even, like he’d actually been hit.  Steve.  His raw, prickling eyes burned, and Tony scrubbed one hand ruthlessly across them.  Why the hell would Steve be wanting to get in contact with him?  
  
The message changed a moment later, turning red with a wash of color.  _Priority Avengers Alert.  All Avengers, including past or inactive, report to Avengers Mansion._  
  
What was that about?  Tony faltered, just for a moment.  It sounded serious.  Maybe he should go back—just to see—he didn’t have to tell anyone.  Or maybe just Jarvis, he could see him, ask him what was up—  
  
He cut the thoughts off a moment later.  No, that was too easy.  And if he went back, he’d want to stay.  The mansion was—well—it would feel like home, that was the thing.  He’d probably beg for forgiveness, or dump the whole thing on Steve’s lap, let Steve absolve him of his guilt, or punish him, or—or whatever Steve wanted to do, but he couldn’t do that.  It wasn’t Steve’s problem; it was Tony’s.  Steve wasn’t the one who should have to deal with Tony being so weak it was apparently a piece of cake to just waltz into his mind and make him do whatever anyone wanted.  None of them should—should ever have had to deal with that.  He felt that twisting sense of nausea again, and for a moment felt his throat thickening and his eyes burning as if he was about to cry (God, how fucking pathetic was that), but he managed to force it down, this time.  
  
He wanted to see them too much.  It would be too easy.  He couldn’t do that.  And besides, if all the former Avengers were there, past and present—they could deal with it, with whatever the threat might be.  
  
Of course they could.  He was being stupid and arrogant to imagine they even needed him.  
  
It sure would have been nice to see Steve again.  And the others.  Jan.  Thor.  God, Thor.  But hell, who was he kidding?  It wasn’t like he deserved that, either, and the last time Steve had seen him like this, an adult who could reasonably be held accountable for what he’d done, he’d been a murderer, and Steve had known it.  ( _He’d been dying in Steve’s arms_ , a part of him wanted to remind him.  He could still remember it, the pain, the way he felt himself weakening, his mind going blank even as he struggled to speak.  The agonizing pain of it.  The way Steve’s arms had felt around him, warm even as Tony’s hands and feet grew cold, as he felt less and less of that warmth.  Steve had held him as he died.  What right did he have to ask for more than that?  It had been more than he’d deserved, to have Steve cradling him against his own chest, his handsome face the last thing Tony had seen before he hadn’t seen much of anything except a blur, and then the darkness.  But Steve had always been kind like that.  Kind to _him_.  Generous.  He didn’t deserve it.)  
  
Honestly, though, he never had.  Steve had gone after him when he was drinking, too.  Tried to save him even though Tony was weak and pathetic and wallowing in it, could never deserve his kindness.  What did it matter if—if Steve had never—if Steve had never seen him the way Tony wished he could have?  Steve had already been kinder to him than Tony ever deserved.  (He’d never said anything, because maybe he deserved it, but he didn’t think he could take the sweet, empathetic sadness on Steve’s face as he let him down gently, told Tony that no, he was so sorry, but he didn’t think of him that way . . . and now it was too late.  Tony was dead, for all intents and purposes, after all.  Dead as far as Steve knew.  It was just—it was better that way.)  
  
Dead and still pining.  It just figured Tony Stark would be that damn sad.  
  
He just . . . hoped Steve was all right, that was all.  He hoped all of them were all right.  He’d have to find a way to check on them, check up on what was happening, so that if they needed to help, maybe he could do something.  No one ever needed to know it was him, after all.  
  
Mind made up, Tony set the identicard down, picked up the copy of _Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said_ that he’d bought at the secondhand bookstore in town the other day, and covered the identicard with the book.  He needed to go back to sleep.  Or, well, since he doubted he could sleep at all, he needed to try to sleep, at least.  They were starting to notice his sleep deprivation at the office, and the last thing he needed was to lose this chance to make a difference like he’d lost his chance to be Iron Man.  A tired engineer was a sloppy engineer, and no one could afford that from him.  
  
He couldn’t go and fuck this up, too.  He couldn’t be the cause of anyone else getting hurt.  He couldn’t.  
  
Tony consciously didn’t let himself look toward the workshop in the back of the small apartment over the autobody shop he’d rented.  He knew perfectly well that his new, half-finished armor was back there, that he was lying to himself.  _Rhodey_ , he told himself, _it’s for Rhodey._  
  
But it was an Iron Man armor, not for War Machine, and, well, if he wanted Rhodey to become Iron Man again, why hadn’t he talked to him about it, yet?  He’d talked to Rhodey just a few days ago, about the Tony Stark estate and how to keep handling it.  He could have talked to him about it then.  
  
_Last time was so strained_ , Tony thought.  _I hurt him so much, and I shouldn’t have done that.  I just want to make sure he’s okay with it this time first._  
  
But no, that was why he’d told Rhodey he was alive.  It didn’t have anything to do with delaying making up his mind what to do about Iron Man, and he knew it.  Tony sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck.  He was so tired.  He slid into bed, leaning over to see what time it was.  4 am.  Jesus.  No wonder he felt like crap.  
  
Tony lay awake, tracing the shapes that the occasional passing car left across the ceiling through the cracked blinds over the windows for most of the rest of the night, but toward dawn he slid into an uneasy sleep, full of uneasy dreams where Steve was sitting across the table from him, his face strangely blurry, the way it had been as Tony lay dying, looking up at him, gasping for breath and hardly able to see, and he kept talking, but Tony couldn’t hear him, his face too blurry for Tony to read his lips.  
  
He woke out of that dream gasping, too, but at least he didn’t feel the urge to throw up again.  Tony lay there for a moment, then groaned, rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, not wanting to face the rest of the day with his throbbing headache, the gritty ache of his eyes, but knowing he had no choice.  
  
He dragged himself out of bed a moment later and headed for the shower to start getting ready for the day.  He showered on autopilot, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror out of habit as he brushed his teeth thoroughly, then got himself dressed and headed downstairs.  The autobody shop needed a lot of work, and his shift was first thing, for the first half of the day, before he’d change clothes and head down to the office to start work on the project there for the day.  The shop was still deserted this early in the morning, which was just how Tony liked it.  He started a cup of coffee for himself from the ancient coffeemaker they kept in the back and got to work.


	2. I Try To Reach For You But You Have Closed Your Mind

“And what about Iron Man?  Did he return with the other Avengers?  After the death of Tony Stark, is Iron Man still an Avenger?”  
  
Reporters.  They really did have an incredible knack for zeroing in on exactly the questions Steve didn’t want to answer, or even think about, and asking them.  He tried not to seem weary or impatient, took a deep breath—  
  
And Jan broke in beside him smoothly.  “Iron Man’s taken a leave of absence after the death of his employer,” she said.  “I’m sure he’ll let us know if he plans to return to the Avengers when he’s ready.”  
  
It was a plausible lie, at least, it just wasn’t one Steve was sure they should be telling.  What if Tony actually was dead, after all?  
  
Well, then they could say that Iron Man had chosen to retire, he supposed, but it felt wrong, and tasted sour in his mouth.  Tony deserved better from them than lies and a cover-up, and the people who trusted Iron Man, who believed in him, deserved that, too.  Though Steve supposed either way they were covering up what had really happened, when Tony had killed those people.  
  
It made him feel sick to think of it.  He turned his head away and let Jan handle that reporter, turned to answer another set of questions, these about the new team.  People were full of them, now that they’d come back from their first mission together, dealing with Morgan le Fay getting her hands on those Asgardian artifacts (and making them all think they were living in Arthurian times, but that wasn’t the sort of thing Steve got into with the press), anxious to find out what the final line-up for the team was going to be.  
  
It was only after, as he was going through the Avengers accounts and paperwork, that he found his mind dwelling on Tony again.  Not just because he missed him so damn much, or because Tony would have been a hell of a lot better at figuring out the accounts than he was, though both those things were true, too.  Even in the illusion of Camelot Morgan le Fay had created for them, when Steve had thought he was one of her knights, he’d dreamed of Tony, dreamed of watching him turn away from Steve and walk away, dreamed of his eyes filled with pain and leaking tears as he died as Steve held him in his arms.  In his dreams, Steve begged him not to go.  Steve had thought it some kind of omen, when he’d thought himself a medieval knight.  It had been one of the reasons he’d started asking himself questions about where they were, the ones that had led to him breaking through Morgan le Fay’s control.  
  
He was a little sad Tony hadn’t been there.  But Tony would have hated it, as much as he loved King Arthur and his knights, wouldn’t he?  Tony hated magic.  
  
But the main reason his thoughts were on him was that it was because of Tony that the Avengers really had any money to begin with, and if not for his foresight in setting up the Maria Stark Foundation to fund them even in the event of his death or disappearance (Jan had said Tony thought he probably wasn’t going to live very long when he set it up, Steve thought with another pang of sadness), Steve wasn’t sure if they’d be able to restart the Avengers at all.  As it was, they had plenty, even enough to do a bit of the retrofit of the mansion, even without Tony around to build them all equipment for free.  God, it wasn’t until he wasn’t there that any of them had even realized how much he did for them.  Steve hoped he hadn’t been too hard on the teenaged version of Tony who had replaced him, back then, for not being his adult self, not able to do everything their Tony had done, like run their computer systems and replace any broken equipment at the drop of a hat.  As it was, he was damn worried about the Vision, and how he’d been damaged by Morgan le Fay and her magic.  They’d had to send him off to Reed Richards and the Fantastic Four as soon as they got back, and Wanda, of course, had gone with him.  Even without the two of them, Steve knew they’d have to be getting the team back down to a manageable size sooner rather than later.  He’d have to make decisions.  He’d been putting that off, too.  He guessed part of him didn’t want to announce a team officially without Iron Man on it.  
  
God, he was a wreck.  Steve sighed, sank his head into his hands.  He had to get a hold on himself, stop this pointless . . . pining, or grieving, or whatever it was.  People needed him.  The Avengers needed him.  Tony would have been the first to tell him not to wallow, to pull himself together.  
  
But no, that wasn’t true.  Tony had always been willing to listen to his problems, had been there to comfort him with sympathetic eyes and a hand on his shoulder, inside the armor or out of it.  He’d always been a—a warm, sympathetic pillar of strength, of empathy and commiseration, whenever Steve had looked to him for a listening ear, for sympathy.  He’d probably have put his arms around Steve and told him to cry it out on his shoulder, if not in so many words.  
  
He wished he felt like he’d ever been able to be the same for Tony in return.  But he was afraid he never really had been.  The thought made him feel terrible, made Steve’s breath thicken up tight in the back of his throat, into a painful lump.  He regretted so much when it came to Tony.  He just—he just wished he’d had an opportunity to tell him.  
  
Steve sighed, pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took a few deep breaths, blowing them back out slowly.  He just sat there for a moment.  It was hard not to think about Tony, about how much he missed him.  Steve wasn’t sure why.  Sure, he’d always missed him before, when they weren’t together, and he’d been near sick with anxiety over him when Tony had disappeared before, when he’d been drinking, but Tony had spent a long time with the West Coast Avengers, and Steve hadn’t been pining over him like a needy puppy missing its master then.  Had he?  
  
God, what if Tony had disappeared because he was drinking again?  The thought sent a chill through Steve, all the way to his bones.  That would be—that would be awful.  He swallowed hard against it, feeling sick.  
  
No, that wouldn’t happen.  Tony wouldn’t.  He was sober now, Steve knew that.  
  
But if he was—if he was, Steve would have to find him, that was all.  He knew, in the back of his mind, in his heart, that he’d—he’d failed him last time.  He’d shouted at him, he’d hurt him, he’d just made him worse—Tony had run rather than face him again and fallen deeper and deeper because of it, dropped off the face of the earth, doing who knew what to survive.  God, he’d been living on the streets, and all the time Steve had never even known.  He only knew that much because Rhodes had told him, once—Tony had done no more than allude to it vaguely.  
  
He couldn’t fail him like that again.  It had been Steve’s fault, partly at least.  If that was happening again—the least Steve could do would be to look for him.  
  
God, no, it couldn’t be that.  Besides, Steve had a team to run, duties to the Avengers.  He couldn’t just go haring off looking for Tony, could he?  Where would he even start?  
  
Steve forced himself to rub his hands over his face and lower them again and go back to the paperwork.  It was dull, mind-numbing work that he wasn’t very good at (Jan would check his figures later, she’d promised him), but someone needed to do it, and Steve needed to be doing something.  Besides, he wanted to do it himself.  He needed to see if there was anything obviously irregular, obviously strange.  
  
It nearly shocked him out of his chair when he did find something strange, though.  It was a large—really large—deposit of money into the Avengers accounts from what looked like a Randall Pierce.  Randall Pierce?  Why was that name so familiar?  He knew he’d heard it before.  Somewhere.  Why had he heard it before?  And why would Randall Pierce be donating such an astronomical amount of money to the Avengers?  
  
And then he thought . . . wait.  And then _no, it couldn’t be_.  He couldn’t get his hopes up.  That was crazy.  Wishful thinking.  Foolish.  
  
He still almost tripped out of his chair grabbing the receipt off the desk and rushing to go show it to Jan.  
  
“You’re right,” she said slowly.  “Randall Pierce was the fake identity Tony had set up for Iron Man.  Still was set up as Iron Man’s identity, I guess, last thing . . . any of us knew, I guess.”  She swallowed, looking a little uncomfortable.  They’d run a check through the Avengers computers and discovered that the money had come from a Swiss bank account.  “But Steve,” she said, finally, and set down the piece of paperwork he’d grabbed to show her to reach out and take both his hands in hers.  Hers were small, and felt cold.  “This doesn’t mean it’s Tony,” she said earnestly.  “I know how much you must want him back—but maybe this is from his estate; you know him, plans on top of plans, maybe he set up some kind of contingency just for this—”  
  
“So you agree it has to have something to do with Tony,” Steve said, breaking into what she was saying.  
  
Jan squeezed his hands.  “Yes,” she said, “maybe.  I mean, it must have something to do with him.  But I—I just . . . I know how much you must want him to be alive.  I know how much _I_ want him to be alive, and I know—I mean, I could tell you were really broken up about us, uh, not knowing where he is, earlier.  Him not being here.”  
  
“What does that have to do with it?” Steve demanded, pulling out of her hold and getting to his feet, starting to pace despite himself.  He could hear how his voice went rough and broke and he knew that wasn’t exactly disproving her point about him being broken up about it, but he couldn’t help it.  His throat hurt.  “Just because I care about him doesn’t mean it can’t be him.  You said it yourself; it’s the same fake identity he used.  Why does it have to be a false lead just because I want to see him?”  
  
“It doesn’t,” Jan said quickly.  Placating him, Steve thought, and swallowed hard.  “But it does mean you might be sort of—seeing the evidence through rose-colored glasses, Steve.  Seeing what you want to see.  Evidence that Tony’s out there somewhere.  That he’s alive.”  
  
“And you don’t want that?” Steve cried out, and then realized how loud his voice was getting.  He swallowed hard, forced it back down to a more reasonable level.  “It doesn’t make this any less something to be investigated,” he said, swallowing again.  “Whether he’s alive and sent us that money or not, we should get to the bottom of where it came from.”  
  
“I agree with that,” Jan said.  “But—Steve.  I don’t think you should get your hopes up, just in case it’s, well, just in case it doesn’t mean anything in particular except another legacy from Tony’s will.”  
  
“Why would Tony have hidden it under a false name if it was just a legacy from his will?” Steve asked desperately.  
  
“I don’t know,” Jan said, throwing her hands up.  “You know how paranoid he can be!”  
  
“What’s the deal?” Clint asked from behind Steve, and Steve closed his eyes and exhaled and counted to ten, because the fact that Clint was just about the last person he wanted to talk to about whether his hope that Tony was still alive or not was irrational wasn’t his fault and he shouldn’t take it out on him.  
  
“Well,” Jan said, like she didn’t really want to answer the question either.   “There’s been a few weird deposits in the Avengers accounts from offshore banks that came from someone using the name Randall Pierce, which Tony used to use as the fake cover identity of Iron Man.”  
  
“Oh, wow, seriously?” Clint came in further and bent over the table to see the papers, then whistled, shaking his head.  “So what do you guys think?  Is it Tony?”  
  
“I think it is,” Steve said tightly.  “Jan thinks it isn’t.”  
  
“I didn’t say I think it _isn’t_ ,” Jan said.  “I just don’t think we should get our hopes about it being Tony, that’s all.”  
  
Clint looked at Steve consideringly.  “What makes you think it’s him, Cap?” he asked.  
  
“Why all the secrecy?” Steve burst out.  “Why use that name for the account?  Why any of it?  Tony would give the Avengers money, you know he would.  It just makes sense.”  
  
“Could it be some kinda supervillain?” Clint asked.  
  
“No supervillain knows that Randall Pierce is Tony Stark,” Steve said.  “Or if they do, we have way bigger problems than just a question of why a supervillain might want to give us money.”  
  
“Hey, we could have way bigger problems,” Clint said, “that’s all I’m saying.”  
  
“Why is it easier to believe it’s a _supervillain_ than to believe it’s Tony?” Steve bit out, hating how tight his throat felt, the lump choking him with emotion.  
  
“I’m not saying it is,” Clint said, holding his hands up.  “I just think we should examine all possible options.”  
  
“You know I think examining the options is a good idea, Steve,” Jan said, in a softer voice.  
  
Steve took another slow, deep breath and closed his eyes.  He couldn’t see why they didn’t feel the way he did—the leap of hope in his chest, the desperate need to find Tony, to—to find any trace of him, to know what had happened to him.  Even if he wasn’t alive, Steve had to know what had happened to him.  
  
He couldn’t just be—dead.  It couldn’t end, just like that.  Even when he’d died, before—there had still been his younger self.  He hadn’t just been . . . gone.  Tony was so—so bright and vibrant and brilliant, so real and alive and impossibly vivid.  It was impossible to think that he’d have just, what?  Winked out of existence rather than come back to their world, because the version of him here had already died?  So had all the rest of them!  
  
No.  No.  That was too cruel.  Too unfair.  Steve knew the world was unfair, but that was—just no.  He refused to believe it.  
  
That was about when Hank came in, and they ended up rehashing the whole argument, and of course Hank was on the side of caution, too.  Well, to be honest, Steve hadn’t expected anything different from him, but it still stung, how none of them seemed to want to take his side.  Seemed to see it the way he did.  
  
“Steve,” Hank finally said, “what if it is Tony?  What would that even mean?  We still have no idea where he is.  He might not even be himself anymore.”  
  
“Then why would he be sending us money?” Steve asked, and his voice cracked; he knew they could all hear it.  He was abruptly more than ready for this conversation to be over.  “Why don’t any of the rest of you want to think he’s alive, that he’s out there somewhere?” he demanded.  
  
“Of course I want to think he’s out there somewhere,” Jan said.  Her voice was soft, and sounded sad.  “I just don’t think you should pin your hopes on it, that all.”  
  
“We don’t have any idea what happened when we all came back to this world,” Hank said.  “Even Thor said he doesn’t remember it clearly.  It’s entirely possible that Tony just . . . no longer exists.”  
  
Something in Steve’s chest felt like it snapped, and his eyes burned, and there was no way in hell he was going to stand around and cry in front of the team—especially Clint Barton.  Not even over Tony.  “That’s not true,” he said, and almost broke a piece off the mantelpiece when his hand clenched on it.  He snatched it away and grabbed his shield up off the floor.  “And you know what?  I’m going to prove it.  I’m going to go find him.”  
  
And he walked out of the room, his heart beating hot and fast in his chest, and his throat burning.  
  
He was, though.  He was going to go find Tony.  He didn’t know how, but—but he was.  And he was going to start by calling Lieutenant Rhodes and—Mrs. Potts.  Ms. Potts?  Ms. Hogan Potts?—and then the people at Stark Industries, or whatever it was called now, and he wasn’t going to stop until he really did find Tony.  
  
He called Lieutenant Rhodes first.  He was less intimidating than Ms. Potts.  He was willing to meet with Steve later that day, and so was Ms. Potts, and Steve felt incredibly lucky for that, and guilty for the inconvenience, because he was sure Rhodes was tied up with his new salvage business.  He didn’t know what Ms. Potts was up to, other than administering Tony’s estate, but he was sure she was extremely busy, too.  But it was the first step to finding out where Tony might be, it had to be, so he just thanked them as sincerely as he possibly could and promised to be there.  
  
Thor found him while he was packing.  He knocked, but of course that just send the door, which hadn’t even been closed, flying open wide.  
  
“Oh,” Steve said.  “Hey, Thor.”  
  
“The others didst tell me that thou leavest on a quest to find our missing shield brother,” Thor said.  He sounded excited.  Steve figured that it made sense; quests to find missing friends were totally up Thor’s alley.  
  
“I am,” Steve said stubbornly.  “You want to come?”  
  
“Alas, I cannot,” Thor said, and he really did sound sad about it, too.  At that moment, Thor was just about Steve’s favorite teammate.  “But I must needs return to Asgard for a short while.”  
  
“There’s no trouble, is there?” Steve asked.  
  
“None but the usual,” Thor said cheerfully.  “I simply wish to check in on my people, and be certain that nothing else has gone terribly wrong in the time I have spent here with thee.”  
  
“Sure thing,” Steve said.  That was good, at least.  
  
“Besides,” Thor said, and his hand came down on Steve’s shoulder, very broad and very warm, and squeezed.  “I have a feeling that thou wilst have the most success out of all of us, if thou didst but go alone.”  
  
Steve looked at him blankly.  “Huh?” he said.  “What do you mean?  Really?”  
  
Thor just shrugged.  “Thou hast always been close with the Iron Man,” he said, but Steve got the definite impression that that wasn’t everything he’d meant when he’d said that.  
  
“That’s true,” he said, and swallowed hard, all the same.  “I miss him, Thor.”  
  
“As do I, Steven,” Thor said, very seriously, his face growing grave.  “And I wish thee the best of luck on thy quest.”  
  
“Thanks,” Steve said, and meant it wholeheartedly.  
  
“If thou dost find him indeed,” Thor said, after a moment.  “Be patient.  For he has been through a very great deal, and his ways may seem strange if thou dost find him again, confused or even maddening.  I have often wished for more patience in dealing with mine own brother, Loki, and I would wish thee the same, in this.  For little is more important in dealing with the mind already complex, and made more complex by troubles, I dost think.”  
  
Steve blinked at him.  Be patient.  Right.  He could do that, couldn’t he?  
  
“Thou mayest feel great frustration with him,” Thor said, “for such things are difficult.  But I am sure Anthony Stark would not delay returning to the Avengers if his straits were not dire indeed.  I pray thee remember that, gentle Steven, and aye, beist thou yet patient with him even if he hast played thee false, all of us most false, and willingly concealed from us that he yet lives.”  
  
Oh.  Steve swallowed.  Right.  “You think—you think he’s doing that, then?” he asked, through lips that felt oddly numb.  
  
“I think, if he yet lives, his state of mind is like to be most disordered,” Thor said.  “Else he would have returned to us ere now.  Though I know not what thou mayest find.  I am no seer.”  
  
“Right,” Steve said, and went back to packing his shirts away with a vengeance.  He was almost done.  
  
Thor squeezed his shoulder again.  “He admires you greatly,” he said.  “Even when he does not easily show it.  I wish thee luck, and good fortune upon your quest.”  
  
Steve was still thinking about what Thor had said— _beist thou yet patient with him even if he hast played thee false_ —as he shouldered his bag and headed down to his bike.  He was surprised to see Jan there waiting for him, leaning on it.  “Steve,” she said immediately, and straightened up, giving him a tiny smile.  “I just, I wanted to say . . . .”  
  
“I’m not angry with you, Jan,” Steve said, and it came out sounding tired.  “It’s not that.”  
  
“No, I mean, I know,” Jan said immediately, and gave him a wider, more genuine smile.  “I know.  I just wanted to say—I was just worried about you, that’s all.  You and Tony have always been close.  But I’m—I’m sure you’ll find him.  And I just want you to—to make sure he knows we care about him when you do.  All right?  No grudges.  You can tell him that for me.  I know he didn’t mean anything he did to me, or to anyone else.  I’ve known him forever.  I know he’s probably beating himself up about it, and maybe he’s been avoiding us because he thinks I’m angry with him, or Hank is, but we’re not.  Hank gets it, too.  We understand.  I just want you to be able to tell him that with a clear conscience.”  
  
Steve swallowed back another tight knot that had taken up residence in his throat.  “Thanks, Jan,” he said, and it came out lower and huskier than usual.  “I will.  When I find him.  I’ll be sure to tell him that.”  
  
Jan leaned in and quickly wrapped her arms around him.  Small as she was, Jan had always given the most wonderful hugs.  Steve quickly wrapped his arms around her, hugged her back, breathing in the smell of her hair.  “I’ll find him, Jan,” he murmured, getting it out through his tight through.  “I promise.”  
  
And then the hug was over, and she was pulling away again.  “I know you will,” she said, and smiled up at him.  “All right.  Just wanted to wish you bon voyage.”  
  
“Thanks,” Steve said.  “I appreciate it.”  He gave her a little salute as he climbed onto his bike and started off, and she waved back.  
  
He didn’t have far to go, to start with.  They’d agreed to meet him at a nearby office in Manhattan, though it wasn’t the one Stark Industries had used to have.  Steve felt a strange pang of loss at that as he pulled up in front of the unfamiliar building and took off his helmet.  He hadn’t even ever gone to see Tony that much at work—he hadn’t wanted to bother him, he was so busy—but it still felt wrong, off, somehow, to be going somewhere else.  
  
They buzzed him in, and there were a few hoops to jump through before Jim Rhodes came striding around a corner and held out his hand for Steve to shake it.  “Cap, man,” he said, smiling widely.  “Long time no see, huh?”  
  
“You got that right,” Steve said.  “How have you been, Lieutenant?”  _Since you haven't been being killed by Onslaught and reincarnated in some strange other world made of Franklin Richards’ imagination_ , his mind filled in.  
  
“Not bad,” Rhodes said.  “Better than I have any right to be, that’s what Pepper would tell you.  And jeez, call me Jim.  So.”  He sobered, going serious.  “You said you had questions about Tony?”  He looked sad, and somehow tired, when he said his name.  
  
“That’s right,” Steve said.  He felt that same throbbing ache, as if in sympathy, inside his chest.  “There were a few questions that I had about the estate.”  
  
“All right,” Jim said.  “Why don’t we see if we can answer those for you?”  He gestured him inside an office.  
  
Ms. Potts was already seated inside, and she had a few papers spread out on the table in front of her.  She looked up as they came in, and she smiled at Steve, too, so genuinely he was honestly flattered, and they shook hands, then they all sat down and Steve had to talk about it.  
  
He didn’t know where to start.  This wasn’t like giving a speech to a crowd, or the team, or anything he was good at.  He swallowed hard.  
  
“There was a payment into the Avengers account,” he said, and dug the paperwork out of his pocket, slid it across the table to them.  “It was from a Swiss bank account and under the name of Randall Pierce.  The thing is,” he swallowed, again, “really, that I know that’s the name Tony used when he set up a fake cover identity for Iron Man, and it’s quite a bit of money, as you can see, so I was just wondering, uh, if you . . . knew anything about that,” he finished, lamely.  
  
Ms. Potts took in a sharp breath and then went still.  Jim looked at her, then she looked at him, and took another deep breath, and somehow, just from that, and the way Ms. Potts was always so cool and collected, and the way Jim’s hand had curled inward into a fist on the table, not exactly clenching, Steve knew.  
  
He knew they were going to lie to him.  
  
Jim shrugged, and Ms. Potts said, “Before he died, Tony set up a few special trusts for the Avengers.  I have the paperwork right here.”  She slid it across the table to Steve, and when Steve looked at it, everything seemed to be in order—the dates were right for it to have been set up before Tony’s death—but it just felt wrong.  Something about it made the place right between his shoulder blades itch.  
  
“Why didn’t anyone tell us about this before?” he asked.  “It seems relevant to Avengers operations, if there was a special bequest.”  It came out very tight and clipped, tighter than he’d meant it to, and Ms. Potts winced.  
  
“Well, it was all such a mess,” she said quietly.  “After Tony died.  And he was still—sort of—alive, and, well.  I guess it just kind of got lost in the shuffle.  And then there was Onslaught, and, well, we weren’t sure if there was going to be an Avengers anymore, ever again, so.  And, well, I think Tony wanted it to be a secret.”  She was blushing as she said the last part.  
  
Steve’s throat tightened.  They were lying to him.  Why would they lie to him about this—unless Tony was alive, and had told them to?  Was he jumping to conclusions?  Was that just what he wanted to believe, or did it make sense?  
  
Her story hung together, but then there was the way Rhodes was looking at her, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly before he looked away again.  Like, maybe, he’d never heard that before in his life.  
  
“Why would he want it to be a secret?” Steve asked, and he didn’t have to fake the hurt, angry tone in his voice, not at all.  “He was one of us.”  
  
“I think he uh, he, maybe felt awkward about it,” Rhodes said after a moment of Ms. Potts looking at him, her eyes wide.  “He didn’t exactly go out the way he’d wanted to.”  
  
“Tony Stark died stopping Kang and saving all our lives,” Steve said, and he could hear how crisp and clear the words came out.  He swallowed hard against his sudden anger.  “I can’t imagine a more noble way for him to have—have left us.”  
  
“No,” Rhodes said, and his voice was suddenly thick, too.  He clasped his hands together and looked down, and Steve remembered how close Rhodes and Tony had always been and felt like a heel.  Even if he was lying to him, there was no call to rub the fella’s nose in Tony’s death.  Or to throw it in Ms. Potts’ face, either.  They’d had to grieve, too, and they hadn’t had a life in that other world where Tony had been alive to soften it, either.  
  
Even if Tony was alive, now, today, and they were lying to him about it, they’d still grieved him.  
  
And then it hit Steve, that if they knew that Tony was still alive, it meant that Tony must have told them.  He’d trusted them with that—which of course he had, he’d worked with them forever, they were his closest friends—but—that meant he hadn’t trusted Steve with it.  
  
Hadn’t trusted Steve enough to tell him.  
  
Hadn’t trusted Steve at all.  
  
He drew in a ragged breath, forced himself to focus.  
  
“But I still think he uh, feel—felt guilty,” Ms. Potts said after a moment.  “I don’t know, Captain.  Sometimes it’s hard to figure out why Tony did the things he did.  But I know he would have wanted the Avengers to have that money.  I’m sorry we can’t be of more help, truly.”  
  
She had almost said _feels_ there, not felt.  Steve was sure of it.  Hadn’t she?  Was he imagining things?  
  
God, this had him all over the place.  He wasn’t good at this, seeing deception in people, searching it out.  He suddenly wished he’d spoken to Natasha since they’d come back, that she had come with him.  
  
He wasn’t Natasha, he decided.  He should do what he was good at.  “I think Tony is alive,” he said.  “What do you think?  What would the two of you say to that?”  
  
Ms. Potts went very red in the face, all at once, so red it put her hair to shame.  “I—I think you’re looking for answers where there aren’t any.”  Her voice went thick, and a little breathy.  “Sometimes people leave, no matter how much we wish they—they—for the alternative. Tony’s—he’s gone.”  She was shaking.  
  
Jim put his head in his hands, then reached out to her, patted her shoulders, gave her a one-armed hug.  “If you think Tony’s alive, Cap,” he said.  “You’re going to have to look somewhere else.  We’re the administrators of his estate.  We made a promise to protect his interests.”  
  
He was looking Steve straight in the eye.  
  
Steve was pretty sure he understood was he was saying.  If Tony was alive—and the way Rhodes was looking at him, he was pretty sure he was—they weren’t going to help him.  But they weren’t going to stop him, either.  
  
He felt it like a wrench inside of him.  He felt it almost like a blow, a hit to the solar plexus.  Tony was alive, Jim’s steady gaze was telling him that.  But he hadn’t told Steve, hadn’t told him anything.  He’d just—just let him believe that he was dead.  He—Rhodes and Ms. Potts had rated in his estimation, had deserved his trust.  
  
But not Steve.  
  
“Thank you,” Steve said, and his voice came out strangled and choking.  “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”  
  
And he turned on his heel and left the room.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He felt sick on the way down back down to his bike, could feel a hot flush prickling under his skin, hear it in his head as if some prick was chanting _Tony didn’t trust you, Tony didn’t trust you_ right in his ears.  He could feel himself breathing too fast, too hard, and when he tried to control it, it was loud in his ears.  He felt flushed and hot and obvious.  He didn’t know what to do.  If Tony didn’t trust him, was it right to try to find him again?  He felt his fists clench by his sides.  He wanted to.  He wanted to give him a piece of his mind, he—he’d let Steve think he was _dead_ , he’d agonized over him, he’d—it had hurt so much, and he’d been _lying_ to him—but maybe, maybe he didn’t have the whole story.  Maybe there was more to it than that.  
  
Maybe he was wrong.  Maybe Tony wasn’t alive at all.  Or maybe he was hurt.  Maybe that was why he hadn’t come back.  
  
He’d missed him so much.  He’d wanted to see him so much.  Ever since they’d come back.  There had to be more to it.  There had to.  
  
_Tony didn’t trust you._  
  
What had Thor said again?  That he should be patient with Tony.  _Even if he hast played thee false._  
  
God, how had Thor known?  
  
 Was Steve just jumping to conclusions?  
  
He didn’t even notice the man trying to get his attention in the lobby of the building until he practically tripped him with his cane, and then he knew his double-take had been obvious.  Because he looked just like Tony.  
  
But no.  No, he didn’t.  His face was a little rounder, his smile a little more obviously smarmy.  He didn’t have any of Tony’s presence, his intimidatingly radiant charisma.  His eyes weren’t the same brilliant blue.  But he really, really did look so much like Tony.  
  
“I’m not sure we’ve met,” Steve said.  His throat felt thick.  He knew he was flushed, and he felt dizzy, and he wondered how off his rocker he looked to this fella.  
  
“I’m afraid we haven’t,” the man said, and okay, his voice wasn’t like Tony’s, not at all.  Tony had never in his life sounded that smarmy.  “I’m Morgan Stark, cousin to the late Tony Stark.  Am I correct in thinking that you are Captain America, chairperson and leader of the Avengers?”  
  
Oh, jeez, Steve thought.  What gave it away?  It wasn’t like he’d gone there in uniform.  He was wearing a collared shirt, slacks, his motorcycle jacket.  Was there anything that weird about that?  Okay, the shirt was red, white, and blue, but other people wore those colors, right?  
  
Maybe he’d just seen all those pictures Tony collected of the team.  Maybe that was it.  Or maybe he was just guessing because Steve was a big blond sort of guy, and he was here, meeting people known to be former Avengers and Avengers associates.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, figuring there was nothing to be gained from denying it.  “That’s me.”  He held out his hand for a shake.  Morgan’s handshake was nothing like Tony’s, either.  It was like he was trying to crush his hand.  But it wasn’t so easy to do that with Steve.  There was an awkward moment, while Morgan squeezed too hard and Steve met his eyes and returned a nice, firm grip, before Morgan let go.  “Did you want something?” Steve asked politely.  
  
After all, it wasn’t the fella’s fault he wasn’t Tony, was it?  
  
“I was curious about any Avengers interest in Stark Industries,” Morgan said.  “After all, as the current head of operations for Stark-Fujikawa in the United States, I think I should be aware of such things, wouldn’t you?”  He gave Steve his business card.  It said pretty much what he’d said.  Steve automatically slipped it into his wallet.  
  
“I just had to clear up some—some issues with a bequest,” Steve said.  “From, uh, your, your cousin.”  He cleared his throat when it wanted to get stuck again, jam on that lump that kept coming back whenever anyone talked about Tony.  “You know he was an Avengers benefactor for many years.”  
  
Morgan’s eyes sharpened.  Steve had a feeling it was the mention of money that had done it.  “A bequest?” he said.  “From what accounts?  Where would the money come from for that?”  
  
Steve tried not to state the obvious and tell him that his cousin was, or had been, or whatever the truth was, a billionaire.  He, barely, succeeded.  “I’m not about to pretend to be an expert on the Stark fortune,” he said.  “But I was assured everything was in order.”  
  
“How much was it?” Morgan asked.  
  
“I’m pretty sure that’s not your business,” Steve told him firmly.  
  
“Well,” Morgan said.  “That’s not the point.  I simply wanted to let you know that if there’s anything _I_ can do for the Avengers, I’d be happy to work with your representatives.”  
  
Except fund them, Steve bet.  Tony was still doing that.  There was a twist of emotion in his chest.  And besides, Steve wasn’t sure he’d even talked to their new liaison more than once or twice, yet.  He couldn’t quite remember the man’s name.  He’d been distracted.  “You’ll have to call the mansion for that,” he said.  “I’m sorry.”  
  
“I assure you,” Morgan said.  “I only want what’s best for the company.  I have to protect Tony’s legacy, you understand.”  Steve hadn’t heard anything so patently insincere since the last time he’d been to Ripley’s Believe-It-or-Not.  “If you happened to have any information pertaining to the company’s interests, and obviously, as a true patriot, as we hold a number of important defense contracts, you should pass it along to me.  After all, I wouldn’t want anything to ever happen to the funding for the Avengers, or for anything to tarnish my cousin’s legacy in any way.”  
  
What?  Steve felt somehow like he’d touched something slimy, but he wasn’t even sure what Morgan was trying to say.  “I’m not a businessman,” Steve said.  “I wouldn’t know the first thing about whatever new, uh, genius phones you’re selling, sorry.”  
  
“That’s not the only kind of information that might be useful to us,” Morgan said, his eyes glinting.  “You wouldn’t keep me in the dark, would you?  You have such a reputation for being honest.”  
  
“No, sir,” Steve said.  “If I had any information I thought you should know, I absolutely wouldn’t keep you in the dark.  Sorry, Mr. Stark.”  Just calling him that reminded him of Tony, made his heart clench, reminded him of when they’d first met, when sophisticated, handsome, genius Mr. Stark had always made Steve feel flustered and clumsy, because damn, he’d admired him.  “I need to be getting on my way.”  
  
“Of course,” Morgan said smoothly.  “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you.”  
  
Right.  Steve gave him the best smile he could manage, which he was certain wasn’t very good, and finally made it outside to his bike.  
  
The bright sunlight felt somehow cleansing.  
  
Morgan thought Tony was alive, he realized.  That was what that had been about.  It had to be.  Didn’t it?  
  
He kicked his bike into gear, thinking as he bent over the handlebars and started off down the road.  
  
It had to be.  The weird double-talk, all of it.  It had been about Tony, he was sure of it.  Morgan thought Tony was alive, and he didn’t want him to be.  Well, it made sense.  Steve was sure he’d gotten that position at Stark . . . Stark-Fujikawa, anyway, on the strength of Tony’s name, and Tony’s reputation.  With the real Tony around, he figured he’d look pretty shabby in comparison.  
  
God, he’d been slimy.  That was Tony’s cousin?  Sure, they looked alike, but there wasn’t much more of a resemblance there, was there?  He wondered if Tony was in any danger from Morgan.  It was a sobering thought.  If Tony was still alive, well—the last thing he wanted was to lose him to some kind of jealous family infighting.  
  
He needed to find him.  He needed to talk to him again.  He just—maybe Tony hadn’t trusted him.  But he needed to.  He—they had so much unfinished business.  
  
Steve wasn’t sure he’d learned, anything, exactly, from either of those conversations, but he was sure of one thing.  
  
Tony was alive, and he was out there somewhere.


	3. Touch, I Remember Touch

Steve started out by looking for Randall Pierce.  It didn’t get him very far.  There was that Swiss bank account, and a few scattered pieces of a false identity, but after that, pretty much nothing.  Tony hadn’t put a whole lot of effort into that identity.  He wondered if he’d meant to do more on it.  He didn’t want to let Fury know that he was looking for Tony, so using SHIELD resources was out, but he still had a lot of his old tech from the Captain America hotline in a warehouse somewhere, much to his own surprise, so he used that to check up on whether or not anyone else was going by the name of Randall Pierce these days.  There were about a hundred people by that name in the US, apparently, but it was pretty obvious that none of them were Tony.  Or had Swiss bank accounts, for that matter.  
  
So that was a no go.  Randall Pierce had only ever used that account to donate to the Avengers and the Maria Stark Foundation, apparently.  Which was—honestly, so Tony it made Steve’s throat feel thick again and his chest ache, but it didn’t get him much further.  
  
But then Steve thought about it.  The Maria Stark Foundation.  Tony’s mother’s name, the foundation he’d created in her name.  He was sure he’d left some sort of oversight for them, the kind of charities they should donate to, and all that sort of thing, but—well, it was Tony.  If he were alive, maybe he’d want to have a little more input into things.  Steve sure would, if it were in his ma’s name.  
  
On a whim, he pulled up the list of charities the Maria Stark Foundation had funded in the last six months.  The list was a lot longer than the list of people named Randall Pierce in the United States.  
  
It was better than nothing, Steve decided.  Maybe it was a long shot—hell, it probably was.  But it was a place to start.  He’d start with that.  He’d pay each of them a visit, see if he found anything.  
  
The first five or six ended up being pretty much nothing but sight-seeing in the greater New York area.  He got out to Boston a few times, and New Haven a few more.  He met a lot of the very, very nice people Tony had working for the Maria Stark Foundation, and while they all seemed to think the world of Tony, it was all about the creator of the foundation, dead at such a tragically young age.  There were big pictures of Tony that they hung on the walls, in some of them.  
  
Steve spent more than fifteen minutes in front of one of them, once, wondering what he’d say to Tony if he saw him again, his throat aching and heart twisting in his chest just to see his laughing eyes and wry smile again, twice as big as life.  In the picture, his eyes seemed to make eye contact with you over the rims of his pushed down sunglasses, as if he was looking straight at you.  It made Steve’s heart stutter and ache with a deep, throbbing pain.  
  
He hadn’t even been thirty yet.  Steve wanted to be there when he celebrated his thirtieth birthday.  
  
He wanted Tony to have a thirtieth birthday to celebrate.  
  
He started to check the charities further afield off his list after that.  One of the first ones took him up past Westchester, so he looked in on the X-Men.  And basically was tolerated for two minutes, but that was what he’d expected.  Another took him out to Buck’s County Pennsylvania.  
  
He was on his way back from that one when he noticed it.  Someone was tailing him, and very, very professionally, too.  Steve let it happen for a few more miles, then pulled off into a rest area, made sure it was deserted, and waited with his shield in his hand.  
  
The fella who drove in looked familiar.  He was wearing purple body armor, and everything about him screamed professional mercenary.  He got out of the car and walked into the middle of the parking lot.  
  
“It’ll be nice talking to you again, Captain America,” he said, in what Steve thought was really an unnecessarily smug tone of voice.  
  
“Paladin,” he said, and walked around the corner of the building with the restrooms.  He recognized him now—a mercenary who had fought Spider-Man in the past, teamed up with him once, a while back.  Not very trustworthy at all, as far as these things went—Steve had the impression the only thing he really had any loyalty to was his paycheck.  
  
“That’s me,” Paladin said.  “I’m impressed.”  
  
“What, that I picked up that you were there?” Steve asked.  “You’re not exactly a Nazi saboteur.  You’re just a punk kid with a bad attitude.”  
  
Paladin smirked.  “Nice,” he said.  “And we’d worked together so well, too.  So this is how Captain America treats his friends?”  
  
“We’re not friends, Paladin,” Steve said.  They’d been temporary allies, at best.  “What do you want?”  
  
“Happens I’ve been hired to follow you.  Someone’s interested in your trips to the old folks’ home.”  
  
Yeah.  Nice.  “Not very friendly,” Steve observed.  Paladin grinned.  
  
“Mourning tour for your pal?” he said.  
  
And now they got to it.  Exactly what Steve had thought this was probably about.  Tony.  
  
“At the old folks’ home?” Steve asked, purposefully obtuse.  “Don’t know which pal you’re talking about.”  
  
“Okay, fine,” Paladin said.  “Let’s cut the shit.  Do you know where Stark is, or don’t you?”  
  
“Last I checked,” Steve said, “Morgan Stark is in New York, New York.”  
  
“God, you’re annoying,” Paladin said.  “No, your boyfriend.  Your sugar daddy, genius.  Anthony ‘Tony’ Stark.  Any ideas?”  
  
“We buried him in the same cemetery as his father and mother,” Steve said.  
  
“Right,” Paladin said.  “Cute.  Where is he _now_?”  
  
Wasn’t that the billion-dollar question?  
  
“Why don’t you tell me?” Steve asked.  So Paladin was looking for Tony.  And he wouldn’t do that if he hadn’t been hired to do it.  Paladin never did anything at all unless he’d been hired to do it.  So someone out there thought Tony was still alive.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Paladin said, and threw a flashbang at him.  Steve got his shield in front of him and closed his eyes, then, when he couldn’t feel the heat and vibrations of it anymore, threw the shield, calculating where Paladin was based on where he’d been a few seconds ago and the movement he could hear.  He was rewarded with a muffled curse, and jumped into the air, opening his eyes just in time to catch his shield, tuck into a tight roll, and hit Paladin with both feet.  
  
It was amazingly satisfying to see him go sprawling across the pavement, swearing like a blue streak the whole time.  He did manage to grab hold of Steve’s boot, yanking him down after him, and rolled away fast enough that Steve tucking into a roll and bringing his shield down on the side with his stun gun wasn’t enough to hit him.  Steve lashed out with his elbow instead, and caught Paladin a good one to the jaw.  
  
“Hell,” Paladin said.  “Forget it.”  He detonated another flashbang and ran.  
  
Steve picked himself up off the pavement and let him go.  He had bigger things to think about.  
  
He wondered if Morgan Stark had hired Paladin.  If he had, that was a lot of money he’d poured into believing his cousin was alive.  It was a lot of money someone had poured into finding Tony, period.  
  
It put Steve in a good mood as he headed back to New York, that was for sure.  
  
It didn’t last, though.  The next couple of charities were just as much dead ends as the first, and he was starting to wonder if this was just a waste of time.  He found himself going over and over it on the long hours of his bike—what he’d say to Tony if he found him again.  What he’d do.  Some days it felt like he wanted nothing more than to shout at him, demand why he hadn’t trusted Steve, why Steve hadn’t been good enough to share his secret, why he’d made all of them suffer like this, believing he was dead—had it been because of that time they’d disagreed over the Kree Supreme Intelligence?  The fight they’d had over Tony going rogue to destroy the technology that had been stolen from him and sold?  He’d demand answers, he thought, why the hell he’d thought it was okay to do this to him—to Jarvis—to make them suffer like this.  To ask him how the hell he could be so callous?  Didn’t he care about them at all?  
  
Didn’t he care how much Steve had missed him?  
  
Other times, he couldn’t have mustered up the rage if his life had depended on it.  All he wanted was to see Tony again.  To see him smile, or frown, hell, he wasn’t picky.  To be able to put a hand on his shoulder.  He dreamed of giving him a hug, but he didn’t need that much.  Just to be able to—to lay a hand on his forearm, to know he was real.  To tell him that none of them blamed him, just like Jan had said and Thor had implied he might need to hear.  To tell him that it would be all right.  
  
And then there were the days where it was hard to believe he’d ever find him.  Where all of this just seemed like—like he was wasting his gas money, and a nasty little voice in the back of his mind kept asking him why he thought Tony would even want to see him, even if he was still alive?  Maybe he hadn’t told Steve where he was for a reason.  Maybe the last thing he’d want was to see Steve riding up.  Maybe that was why he hadn’t come back to the Avengers.  Maybe he didn’t want to see Steve at all.  Maybe he never would again.  Maybe Steve was the problem.  Maybe he’d already ruined things between them for good.  
  
Maybe Tony really was dead, and he was just going to have to face it.  
  
But no.  No.  He wasn’t going to give up, and if Tony never wanted to see him again, he was going to have to say it to his face.  And if he did, fine.  Fine.  Steve would walk away and never bother him again (though he might send Jan to talk to him about being Iron Man, if she was amenable to it.  Or Thor.).  But he was going to have to say it to Steve’s face, and that was all there was to it.  
  
He wasn’t ready to give up on Tony.  On—on them.  Not yet.  They’d been friends, hadn’t they?  They’d been good friends.  
  
He’d always cared about Tony so much.  Had he ever shown that?  God, why had he never just told him that, just—told him how much he cared about him.  
  
It wasn’t going to be too late.  It couldn’t be.  He wouldn’t let it be.  He was going to find him.  He was.  
  
He wasn’t thinking about any of that, though, when he stopped at the old autobody shop on the outskirts of a small town in upstate New York called Lake Leigh, wasn’t thinking about anything other than the worrying clunking sound he could hear in his motorcycle’s engine.  He knew he’d been hard on this one, and he thought the old girl might have picked up some damage when he’d gone after that A.I.M. operation Logan had called for his help with outside of Rocky Point, a few towns over.  He’d ridden her over some rough terrain out there, and the last thing he wanted was to be stranded somewhere while Tony’s trail got ever colder, or who knew what.  Steve didn’t know himself why he was in such a hurry to find him, what he was afraid of, or if it was even that he was afraid of anything.  
  
He just knew he needed to see Tony again.  
  
Which meant he needed to keep the old girl in good repair.  That was what he was thinking about as the man in front said he’d need to talk to some fella called Eddie to see if they could even handle an old style bike like that, and jerked his thumb toward the back room.  Steve headed that way to find Eddie, whoever he was, and ask, hoping that if these people couldn’t help him, they could at least point him in the direction of someone who could.  
  
There was only one man in the back room, and he was deep in the engine of a car, muttering to himself under his breath.  Steve figured he must have been who the other guy sent him back here to find, so he called, “Hello?  The fella out front sent me back here to talk to Eddie about a bike.”  
  
He felt a little guilty for startling him when the man inside the car jerked, clearly banged his head, and muttered something under his breath.  
  
“Sorry,” he said.  “Didn’t mean to startle you.  It’s my motorcycle.  She’s picked up some kind of—”  
  
His voice died in his throat.  The man had straightened up, turned back to him, lifted his eyes, and under the unfamiliar baseball cap (he’d never seen him in a baseball cap before in his life), and despite the heavy beard, his piercing blue eyes and angular face and strong jaw and soft lips were all achingly, impossibly familiar.  Steve had never imagined Tony Stark in stained coveralls and a baseball cap, looking like he hadn’t shaved in weeks, but—well, there he was.  
  
“ _Eddie_?” he heard himself say, loudly, pointedly, and it came out almost accusingly.  He watched Tony flinch.  His eyes were wide, stricken, all color draining from his face.  He looked as if he were about to pass out, or maybe to turn on his heel and run.  He bit one bloodless lip, wiping his hands jerkily with a grease-stained rag, and if Steve hadn’t been sure before, that reaction told him that he was right.  
  
“Yeah,” he said softly, and it was Tony’s voice, low and hoarse and a little strained, but the same as it had always been.  “That’d be me.”  
  
They stared at each other.  Steve had dreamed of this moment so long, what he’d do, what he’d say—that he’d run to Tony, embrace him, tell him that everything was all right, always had been, maybe, or just squeeze his shoulder and say how _good_ it was to see him, to have him back, to know he was _alive_ , and then there were the times when he’d been angry, had pictured himself shouting at Tony, demanding answers.  As it was he just stood there, tongue-tied and helpless, unable to think of a single thing to say.  
  
Tony smiled weakly.  “Is there something I can do for you, Steve?” he said.  “Your bike, you said?”  
  
Steve.  Tony knew who he was.  Well, of course he did, obviously he did—he would—but he wasn’t bothering to deny it.

  
  
It was him.  Looking not much different than he had the last time Steve had, well, had seen him alive, with his wild hair and a strained, painful expression on his face, though at least now he wasn’t dying, and his face was set in much softer lines than the harsh ones it had settled into then.  And he was no teenager, that was for sure.  He looked the same as he always had, except the full, rough beard and the working class trappings, a little older than his late twenties, especially with the beard, when Steve knew that was how old he really was.  
  
“You didn’t come back,” he said finally, helplessly.  He just couldn’t think of anything else to say.  His own lips felt numb.  It felt forlorn, pathetic, but it came out sounding almost angry, accusing, ripping through the still air in the room.  He felt stupid for saying it a second later.  Of course _Tony_ knew he hadn’t come back.  
  
Tony flinched, and his face settled into harsh lines, his lips twisting for a moment.  “Can we catch up later?” he said, after a moment, his voice hoarse and tight, harsh at first, then settling into something more even, something softer.  “I’ll buy you a coffee at the diner down the road.  I’m in the middle of my shift.”  
  
So Tony was actually working here?  Tony Stark?  One of the most brilliant engineers on Earth was here working in an autobody shop in a small town?  It felt . . . impossible.  It felt surreal.  Steve sought for some kind of response, feeling his mouth open and close helplessly once before he managed to get out, “I was looking for you.”  It came out hoarse and scratchy.  
  
“Well,” Tony said, and shoved the greasy rag into the top of his tool belt.  The wry sarcasm was stinging.  His eyes were bitter, unutterably weary.  “Guess you found me.  It’s your lucky day.”  
  
It was, Steve realized.  He’d been incredibly, incredibly lucky to run into Tony like this.  “Yes,” he agreed.  “It is.  Tony.  God.”  
  
Tony’s face did something strange, and he tugged at his hat, brought it down low over his eyes.  “Not Tony, all right?” he said, and his voice sounded hoarse and thick.  “Not here.”  
  
“All right,” Steve agreed, but somehow that made a strange mixture of emotions rise up in him, almost choking him, that Tony didn’t want him to even call him by his real name.  For a moment he couldn’t breathe, almost like his asthma coming back all over again to choke him, and he swallowed hard, feeling himself going hot.  He wanted to demand what Tony thought he was playing at, what he was even doing.  He’d let Steve think he was _dead_ , for God’s sake.  
  
“So,” Tony said, and swallowed hard.  Steve could feel his face going hot with anger, flushing red, but he still couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off Tony’s face.  That was him.  He was right there.  He almost wanted to touch him, to reassure himself that he was real, that this wasn’t some kind of bizarre dream.  “You said—about your bike?”  
  
“Y-yeah,” Steve stammered, feeling lost, just totally out of his depth.  
  
“Well, show me the damage,” Tony said.  
  
So Steve did, feeling dazed and strange.  If he had thought just seeing Tony was surreal, this was even more so, talking to Tony about his goddamn _bike_ of all things, while Tony asked the sorts of questions any mechanic would ask, running his hands over the metal, getting down on his knees to check it over.  “So, honey, what’s wrong?” Tony asked, murmuring softly to the bike.  “Let’s see.”  It made a strange knot of emotion rise in Steve’s chest, choking and tight in his throat and stinging in his eyes, just to hear Tony’s voice so—so gentle, to hear him crooning softly to something mechanical again.  
  
Eventually, Tony got to his feet again.  “Yeah, the old girl’s a bit beat up,” he said.  “Just needs a little tender loving care, really.  I can take care of it for you.”  His eyes looked big, almost anxious, and he swallowed hard as he looked at Steve.  When he spoke again, his voice had gone soft, low and scratchy.  “I, um, I have to finish my shift,” he said.  “But I do, um, I do have a break for lunch after that.  I was serious about the coffee, if—if that’s something you want from me.  I mean.  I—we probably need to talk, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said.  “We need to talk.”  God, did they ever.  “What time?”  
  
“Around 11:30?” Tony asked.  “You can—you can head to Delilah’s, the diner down the street?  I’ll meet you there.”  He was chewing on his lip, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes through his eyelashes.  Steve—he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, to squeeze Tony’s shoulder or touch his hand or—or punch him in the face.  His emotions were all tangled up together, squeezing tight in his chest.  He still couldn’t quite breathe properly, evenly.  He didn’t even know how he felt, forget what he wanted to do.  
  
Tony was right there, in front of him.  God.  
  
“You will be there?” Steve said, because he couldn’t stand the idea of Tony just disappearing again, melting away like he’d never been there at all, and Tony swallowed hard, thickly, so that Steve could see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his hands together, twisting one against the other, more nervously than anything, Steve thought.  
  
“If you promise,” Steve said, “then yes, I’ll see you then.”  
  
Tony gulped, swallowed heavily.  “I—see you then,” he said, so Steve just had to accept that.  But he couldn’t bring his feet to move, couldn’t bring himself to turn, not until he reached out, and let his hand settle heavily onto Tony’s shoulder.  He could feel the warmth of him under his coveralls, the solidity—even if he was too thin, thin and rangy and more than a little underweight.  He squeezed, heavily, and felt Tony tremble, heard him suck in his breath.  
  
“See you then,” Steve said again, and Tony gulped in another breath of air, nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.  Steve squeezed his shoulder, and had to be content with that.  
  
He turned on his heel and left, but he couldn’t resist one look back.  Tony was still standing there, just . . . standing there.  
  
Steve swallowed and walked back to the other room of the auto shop in a daze.

* * *

  
  
By 11:35, Steve was antsy, trying not to clench his hand into a fist or check the clock in the diner too obviously.  It was a nice little place, one that felt homey and familiar even though he’d never been there before, with wood paneling on the interior.  He ordered a milkshake and then sat there playing with the straw rather than drinking it.  And glancing at the clock, even though he kept telling himself not to.  He told himself it didn’t matter that Tony wasn’t there exactly at 11:30, that it was unreasonable to expect him to be there exactly on the dot.  Tony had to work, after all.  Hell, maybe the clock at the auto shop was slower.  Tony would be here.  He was sure of it.  
  
By 11:40, though, he was starting to feel the tension.  He bit the inside of his lip, tried not to let himself fidget, tap his foot against the floor or pick up the silverware.  If he did, he’d probably bend it, knowing him and how his strength seemed to get harder to control when he was already tense.  Instead, he linked his hands together and stared down at them on the table.  
  
God, where was Tony?  Had he just run off after all?  Should Steve have stayed there, demanded to talk to him?  
  
He wouldn’t do that to Steve, would he?  
  
He wouldn’t.  Not Tony.  Steve had to trust him, had to wait for him.  
  
But he’d done that already, hadn’t he?  He’d been alive, all this time, just living here—out here, letting Steve, Steve and all the others, believe he was dead.  Just . . . _why_?  Why here?  Why hadn’t Steve deserved to know if he was alive or dead?  Didn’t he deserve that?  Didn’t Tony trust him?  
  
Did he not trust him?  What had Steve done wrong?  Had it been their fight over the Kree Supreme Intelligence?  Tony’s fight with the Guardsmen?  Did he not trust Steve anymore, or at least not like he trusted Rhodes and Ms. Potts?  
  
Or maybe he’d never trusted him that much.  
  
Why hadn’t Tony told him?  He didn’t know, and since he didn’t know, how could he know if Tony would come to meet him or not?  Maybe he’d seize his chance, skip town before Steve could ever know, and Steve would just be sitting here, stupid and trusting, waiting for a meeting Tony had never had any intention of making . . . .  
  
Steve knotted his fingers together tightly and took a deep breath.  It was pointless to work himself up over it, he told himself firmly.  Tony had told him he’d be here.  He had to give him a chance to be trustworthy, to keep his word.  How else would he know if—if—if Tony even wanted to see him?  He held that breath for a moment, then blew it out.  
  
A few minutes later, the bell over the door dinged, a chime that seemed to ring in Steve’s ears.  He’d been trying not to be too obvious about checking everyone who came in, too ostentatious, but his head still jerked up every time.  This time Steve made himself control the impulse, take a few more deep breaths, swirling the straw in his milkshake, before he blew them out and let himself look up.  
  
Tony was standing there, just inside the doorway, looking strange and lost and a little out of place.  As Steve watched, he took his hat off, ran a hand back through his hair—which was awfully long, for Tony, and a little tangled.  It was so strange to see it like that, rather than the manicured, gelled perfection Steve was used to seeing on him.  Tony looked around the diner, a moment later, and Steve could see him take a deep breath, blow it out.  
  
He was right there.  He’d showed up.  He’d come.  Steve felt something in his chest that he hadn’t even realized was clenched up that tight loosen, soften somehow.  
  
He hadn’t been wrong to trust Tony, this time, anyway.  
  
Tony’s eyes traveled around the room, then fell on him.  Steve felt a strange sort of—awareness, hot and self-conscious, surge through him, crawl up over the back of his neck into his ears.  The barest trace of a wry smile tugged at one corner of Tony’s lips, then it was gone and he came over toward Steve’s table with a sober expression on his face, not quite a frown but not . . . not one, either.  
  
“Hey there,” Tony said.  “Hiya, stranger.”  He slid into the booth across from Steve with a sigh.  
  
“Hi,” Steve said.  He wasn’t sure if he should call Tony Tony or Eddie, so he did neither.   An awkward silence fell for a moment.  
  
Tony took a quick breath that seemed slightly uneven.  “Sorry I’m late,” he said.  “There was a car that came in, and I needed to replace the tires.  I ended up running a little late.  I mean.  I said that.  Well.”  He smiled, and it was tight, but still the charming smile Steve remembered.  Even dimmed down a bit from how it could be, it still felt like a thousand watts of charisma right there, right in front of you, all going off in your face.  Even though this one was wry, a little muted, a little private, as if inviting Steve in on the joke of Tony’s awkwardness.  But sometimes the pure force of Tony’s charm was intimidating in and of itself for him, always had been.  “Just hope you didn’t think I’d skipped town and left you here,” he said, and oh, boy, that was wry, like Tony just assumed that that was exactly what Steve had been sitting here and thinking.  
  
And, well, he wasn’t wrong about that, was he?  
  
“That’s all right,” was all Steve had time to say before the waitress showed up.  Somehow they ended up both ordering coffee, and Tony ordering Steve a turkey sandwich before he could think to say anything at all.  
  
“You’re the one who should be getting a sandwich,” Steve said, after she’d left.  “This is your lunch break.”  
  
Tony gave him that wry, crooked smile again, looking away.  “I’ll head in to the office after this,” he said.  “They always have something to eat lying around.”  
  
“The office?” Steve asked, feeling lost.  He’d thought Tony was working at the auto shop.  
  
“The Restoration Project,” Tony said, and when Steve just kept staring at him blankly, he added, “To rebuild, after Onslaught.  This town got hit hard, and it hasn’t seen as much aid as New York has.  I’m working on the project, in the local office.  In the afternoon.  In the morning, I put in my hours at Carl’s Autobody.  I have to pay the rent somehow, just like everybody else.”  
  
“But,” Steve said.  He felt like he’d missed something. “No one knows you’re . . . .”  
  
“Eddie Chaney has a doctorate in applied engineering,” Tony said, “and applied through Engineers Without Borders.  I might not be Tony Stark,” his soft smile was mocking, that time, “but I’m not half bad.”  
  
“Sorry,” Steve said helplessly.  Suddenly Tony being here, in this small town, made a lot more sense.  Of course Tony would want to help rebuild after Onslaught.  That didn’t exactly explain the rest of it, but that—that made sense to him.  That felt like Tony.  “I didn’t mean . . . I . . . .”  
  
“Shh, it’s okay, Steve,” Tony said, and reached out, curled his hand over Steve’s, pressed it gently.  Something thrilled hot through Steve’s skin at the touch, and somehow, paradoxically, that made him freeze in place, made his breath stop in his throat.  Tony looked at him, eyes wide, and almost pulled his hand away, but then Steve had turned his, clutched onto Tony’s and squeezed, and God, his hand was so warm.  He felt so real.  It was callused and rough, and there was grease under Tony’s fingernails.  He could feel the pulse beating hot and hard under Tony’s skin where he gripped his wrist.  “I—I know this is a weird situation,” Tony said, and it came out breathy and soft, a little strangled.  
  
“What did you tell them?” Steve asked.  Tony’s hand was still so warm in his.  It was hard to make himself let go, but he did, in another second.  He didn’t want to attract too much attention, and he figured two fellas holding hands would kind of do that.  
  
Tony’s answering smile was wry.  “That I lost my job when I fell into a bottle,” he said, “and now I’m trying to put my life back together.  What else?  After all, it’s true.”  
  
Oh.  Oh, ouch.  That was.  That was . . . .  
  
“You know your milkshake’s melting, right?” Tony said, a moment later, and Steve felt his face heating.  
  
“Yeah,” he said.  “Do you, uh, do you want some?”  
  
Tony raised his eyebrows at him.  
  
“It’s uh, a malted Neapolitan shake,” Steve added, feeling very hot in the face now.  He’d already managed to stir most of the whipped cream into it by twirling his straw around.  
  
“Yeah, and you’re wasting it,” Tony said.  He held his hand out, and Steve gave him the small long-handled spoon out of the cup.  Tony took a small bit of the milkshake, along with a bit of whipped cream, and stuck it between his lips, closing them around it and sucking.  
  
Steve felt himself flush even more, as Tony hummed a sound of approval, closed his eyes just for a moment.  He still had very long eyelashes.  
  
“It’s good, Steve,” Tony said.  “You should actually drink it.”  
  
“You can have a little more,” Steve muttered, but actually did pull up the straw and take a sip.  It seemed to him like Tony must have lost a lot of weight, but then, he’d been awfully heavily muscled the last time he’d seen him.  When he’d died.  More than he usually was, if he was honest.

  
  
Tony did take another spoonful, before he set the spoon back down on Steve’s napkin.  The waitress showed up with their coffee a moment later, and Tony moved to take a swallow of his, black.  
  
“Don’t you still like it sweet?” Steve blurted before he thought.  Tony froze, then gave him a strange, sort of assessing look, before he smiled a little.  
  
“I forgot,” he said.  “That you’re one of the few people who knows I like it sweet and creamy.  I usually drink it black.”  
  
“You told me before I knew who you were,” Steve said.  “That’s all.  I guess you figured it was all right if Iron Man liked his coffee sweet.  It was a hell of a thing to get out of you, too.  Like you were afraid of me realizing you weren’t a robot under that suit after all.”  
  
“I just didn’t know why you wanted to know,” Tony said, but he did pour a healthy amount of cream and added some sugar to his coffee, then stirred it briskly.  “There,” he said.  “Satisfied?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, with a little bit of a smile he couldn’t help.  Leave it to Tony to make it sound like Steve was bullying him into taking the coffee the way he himself had admitted he liked it.  
  
“I live to please,” Tony muttered, but he did have a little bit of a smile on his face when he took another long swallow of his coffee.  
  
Sure he did.  “Tony,” Steve said, at least half to see what Tony would do or say.  Tony froze, fiddled with the spoon in his coffee, before he took it out and set it aside.  
  
“Yessir,” he said, almost flippant, after a moment.  He didn’t correct Steve, tell him to call him Eddie instead this time.  Steve wondered why.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Steve asked.  
  
“Working for the Restoration Project and Carl’s Autobody Shop,” Tony said promptly.  “I thought we talked about this, Steve, keep up.”  
  
“Yes,” Steve said.  God, Tony could be a pill.  He’d forgotten that, somehow, smoothed it over in his mind.  “But why?  You can help rebuild after what happened with Onslaught in the city, too.  There’s plenty of ways to help.”  And he was sure Tony could think of a thousand more than he could in the first place.  “Why stay out here?  Why not—”  The waitress came with Steve’s sandwich, and he paused long enough to thank her, felt himself turning redder and redder as she flirted idly with both of them (she apparently knew Tony, as Eddie anyway, at least to look at), then waited until she was far enough away and absorbed in taking more orders before he spoke again.  “Why not come back to the Avengers?” he asked, and it felt like he was asking _why not come back to me?_ instead.  He had to swallow hard.  “Why not take your own identity back, live under your own name?”  
  
“Maybe I’m tired of it,” Tony said, sitting back abruptly and casting one hand back over the cushion of the booth.  His eyes glittered strangely.  
  
“Tired of . . . the Avengers?” Steve said, aghast.  He’d never—how could he be—  Sure, not everyone was cut out for being an Avenger as often as they’d been on the team, and he knew Tony got burnt out; he’d seen it happen.  He couldn’t blame him for being burnt out now, either, he thought, a little unwillingly, when he thought about everything he’d been through.  Death, brainwashing and mind-control—it was traumatic stuff for anyone, and a whole bunch of it, at that, all at once.  But tired of it sounded different from just . . . tired.  No one could blame Tony for being tired.  But he was a founding Avenger.  He’d funded the team from the beginning.  No one—no one cared more about the Avengers than Tony, no one.  It felt like a foundation of Steve’s universe had started to slip free.  Like he was going crazy.  
  
There was a moment of silence.  Tony’s eyes darkened, and turned inward, and he looked away, slightly.  Finally, he sighed, and reached down to tug at his napkin, pulling it straight, then toying with his fork.  “No,” he said, finally, and Steve let out a breath of relief.  At least—at least it wasn’t that.  “Not the Avengers.  I meant . . . me.  Being me.  Being Tony Stark.”  His face tightened, twisted a little.  “I hate that guy.”  It was the first time, Steve realized, that Tony had directly referred to himself by his own name since he’d seen him in that auto shop.  
  
“I,” Steve said.  “What?”  He’d been dreaming of having Tony back for so long, and hearing him say something like that—it was like hearing him speak some kind of alien language.  
  
Tony’s expression turned into a smile, smoothed out.  “Nothing,” he said.  “I just mean . . . Tony Stark is dead, as far as the world knows.  I guess I . . . wasn’t in any rush to bring him back to life.  I felt like I needed a break, and what better time to take a break than when you’re dead, right?”  
  
There was more to it than that, Steve thought instantly.  That much was obvious.  “Well, I like him,” he said, and felt like he sounded stupid.  
  
“Yeah, Steve, you’re a pal,” Tony said, with a cruel kind of flippancy, and oh, God, it stung, and stung, and stung.  Steve was actually shocked how much it hurt, how it left him breathless with it for a moment.  
  
“I, I, I try to be,” he said, and swallowed hard.  It hurt.  Tony usually didn’t make him feel like this, stupid and slow and unsophisticated, the idiot next to his high-flying genius, but he sure as hell felt that way now.  “You can be Iron Man without being Tony Stark,” he pointed out, and it instantly felt like even more of the wrong thing to say, because he loved Tony for who he was, not just for being Iron Man, and hadn’t he been wanting _Tony_ back, all this time, more than anything?  But wasn’t Tony right there, in front of him, even if he was avoiding _being Tony Stark_ right now, and he wanted Iron Man back, too, his old friend, the Avenger, the shining golden Avenger who had been one of his first friends in this time, and if Tony came back as Iron Man, _Tony_ would still be there, at least to them, his friends, the ones who knew his real identity.  
  
“Tony Stark was always a murderer,” Tony said, his voice rough and thick and oddly harsh at the same time it was soft, so soft.  “I had so much blood on my hands before I even bothered to think about what carrying on making weapons would even—even do, would even accomplish.  I was a stupid kid, and I was responsible for the deaths of who knows how many people before I was twenty-two.  And then Iron Man was a murderer, too.”  He swallowed, hard, and his voice scraped in his throat, going even softer and rougher, dipping lower.  “I killed the Carnelian ambassador.  Because of this—this weapon I’d constructed and fooled myself into thinking was a suit of armor.  But I didn’t accept it.  I told myself it was just a fluke.  Just—just an unfortunate incident.  I took steps, you know?  I took step to make sure no one could hijack the armor like that again.  But I didn’t take them inside my own head, and the next time Iron Man became a murderer, it was because of me, me inside the armor.  Me—me ‘pulling the trigger.’ How many times do I have to kill before I get the point, huh?”  He stared down at his hands, and Steve could see them shaking before he firmed them into fists and crossed them across his chest, jamming them under his arms where Steve couldn’t see them shake.  
  
“Tony,” he said, feeling something in his chest squeeze painfully.  He reached out to him across the table.  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Tony said.  His voice broke.  “People will hear you.  Eat your sandwich, Steve.”  
  
Steve took a deep breath, blew it out, looked down at the sandwich on his plate, swirled his straw in his milkshake again and took another sip, then figured he might as well listen to Tony.  It was the least he could do.  Steve obeyed him, ate half of the sandwich.  He had to admit, it tasted good, and felt better—he hadn’t realized quite how hungry he was.  He finished the milkshake, while he was at it, then took a sip of his own coffee and pushed the other half of the sandwich across the table to Tony.  
  
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.  “You shouldn’t skip lunch, and I’m not going to sit here and take up your lunch hour without you getting anything to show for it.”  
  
Tony gave him another wry, weary half smile.  “Are you serious?” he asked, sounding mostly rhetorical.  
  
“You know me,” Steve said, trying to smile a little, trying to attempt a bit of a joke in return.  “Always serious.”  
  
“Haha,” Tony said.  “You, always serious.  Yeah, right.  You’re such a card, Steve.”  But he did pick up the sandwich and take a bite.  He even seemed inclined to keep eating, so Steve let him.  From the look of him, he hadn’t been doing that often enough lately.  Eventually, Tony finished, and pushed the plate away from himself, back toward Steve, and took another swallow of his coffee.  He was almost done with his cup, so they waited as the waitress swept by and refilled it.  This time, Tony poured in cream and stirred in sugar without Steve saying a word.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Steve said, after a moment, and his voice came out soft and hoarse.  “It’s not, you know.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tony said.  He didn’t meet Steve’s eyes, but he had to wrap both hands around his coffee cup when he took another swallow of it, and Steve would have bet it was to keep his shaking hands from sloshing it visibly.  
  
“I hear that,” Steve said.  “I understand, but—”  
  
“Understand what?” Tony asked.  His voice sounded dull.  “What the hell could you possibly understand?”  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, stung, and it came out quietly, more quietly than he’d meant it to.  Something inside him ached, and he swallowed, and a moment later he was angry, feeling his face flush hot.  “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know,” he said.  “And just—what the hell, Tony?  Why didn’t you _tell_ me?  Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”  And this time it was his voice that broke.  
  
“Because I didn’t want you to know,” Tony said.  “Why did you think?”  
  
“That’s not an answer,” Steve gritted out between his teeth.  Why, why hadn’t Tony trusted him?  
  
“Oops,” Tony said.  “Sorry about that.”  He gave Steve a quick, hard-edged smile and took a smile of his coffee.  
  
Steve took a deep breath, blew it out, and tried not to lose his temper, tried not to let his hands curl into fists, or anything else that would betray his rising frustration and anger.  “I thought you might be dead,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice even.  “I looked for you anyway.  I—” _I so desperately wanted you to be alive.  I missed you so much.  Every second of every day._   “The Avengers needed you against Morgan le Fay.”  
  
“Oh, is that what it was?” Tony mumbled.  He traced a finger through the ring his coffee cup had left on the table.  “You must not have needed me that much,” he added, louder.  “You came through it fine; the news was pretty clear about that.  And you’re here right now.  You’re doing fine without me, aren’t you?”  
  
“But it could have been anything,” Steve said.  “You couldn’t have known unless you responded to the alert.”  Tony had gotten the alert?  Was that what he’d just implied?  “What if it had been Kang?”  
  
Tony flinched.  “Then I’d think you’d want me as far away as humanly fucking possible,” he said.  Steve immediately knew he’d said the wrong thing.  Tony’s eyes looked haunted, haunted and far away, and he hardly ever swore like that.  
  
“But I didn’t,” he said, and he felt like a fool.  “I don’t.  I wanted—I want you there with us.”  _I always want you there with us_ , he thought, helplessly.  
  
“Steve,” Tony said, “I don’t know if you’re getting this or not, but I’m a _liability_.  The Avengers are better off without me.”  
  
“I don’t think that,” Steve said, and he could hear how stiff the words sounded even in his own ears.  
  
“Well, I do,” Tony said, and it came out in a harsh low voice, intense, so intense it felt somehow shocking, delivered across the old cracked diner tabletop.  
  
Steve swallowed hard.  “I never thought I’d see you abandoning the team like this,” he said.  It hurt.  It felt like Tony wanted to walk away from everything that had meant something to the two of them.  From the team.  From his friendship with Steve.  
  
He hadn’t even trusted Steve enough to tell him he was alive.  He could feel his own hand clenching around his coffee cup.  
  
Tony’s eyes dropped.  He swallowed hard.  There was a moment of silence.  “Now you’ve seen it, I guess,” he said, and his voice was hoarse and low, still harsh, but thick and heavy.  “I’m sorry, Steve.”  
  
“Sorry?” Steve demanded.  “ _Sorry_?  Is that all you have to say?  Do you think _sorry_ is going to help?”  
  
A thin, slight tremor passed through Tony’s body.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I guess not.  I’m just not sure what else you want me to say.”  
  
Steve took breath.  “I guess there’s not much more for you _to_ say,” he said, and Tony stiffened, took in a quick, harsh intake of breath.  Swallowed.  
  
“I guess not,” he said, and he moved as if to get up from the table.  “I’ve got work to do, in that case.”  
  
“No,” Steve said, reached out and caught at Tony’s arm before he could get up, leave the table behind.  “No.  Don’t you just.  Don’t you just get up and walk away from me like that.”  _Not after all this time looking._   The thought hitched, painfully, in Steve’s throat.  _Not after I’ve_ found _you._  
  
Tony stopped, sat down again.  “Okay, fine,” he said.  “I won’t.”  This time his eyes came up, up to catch and hold Steve’s, glittering.  “Tell me what you came here to say.”  He said it like a dare, like he was tossing down a gauntlet.  
  
Of course, when he said it like that, Steve couldn’t think of a goddamn thing to say.  “I,” he said, and swallowed.  Tony looked at him, raised his eyebrows questioningly.  God damn it, why did he have to make things so _hard_?  This wasn’t supposed to be how it went.  “I want to know why you didn’t at least get in touch with Jarvis,” he finally said, and honestly didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the way all the fight went out of Tony, the way he slumped against the bench, the fire leaving his eyes as he dropped his head.  
  
“I should have told him,” he said.  “You’re right.  It’s.  It’s unfair.”  He swallowed hard, and Steve could see his throat work.  
  
“So why didn’t you?” he asked, feeling helpless.  
  
“C’mon, Steve,” Tony mumbled.  “Why d’you think?”  
  
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you,” Steve said tightly.  
  
“Because he’d tell you,” Tony bit out suddenly, and his hand smacked roughly against the table.  “That’s why.  And that’s—that’s _pathetic_ of me, I know, Jarvis deserves better, I know, I know that he does, but I didn’t want any of you, any of the Avengers to know, can’t you understand that?”  
  
“But why?” Steve asked desperately.  “Why not?  Can’t you trust us?”  
  
“To keep a secret?” Tony asked.  “Sure, I trust you.  Maybe not Hawkeye, but I trust you.  But not to come here, not to—to try to work on me, convince me that I had to go back?”  He gave a wry, crooked smile.  “I’m not so sure about that one, no.  And I’m not sure I should go back, Steve.  What happens if this is it?  If this is who I am now?  If I decide to never be your knight in shining armor ever again?  Are you going to be okay with that?”  
  
Steve just stared at him.  He felt like he was in shock.  This—this couldn’t be it.  It just couldn’t.  
  
“That’s what I thought,” Tony said, and his smile was wry and twisted on his mouth.  
  
After a moment, Steve swallowed, sat up a little straighter, found his words.  “I admit,” he said carefully, “that’s not what I’d imagined when I decided to come looking for you.  But it’s your life.  It’s your—your choice.  I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”  
  
“So goddamn noble,” Tony said, with a sad, sideways smile at him, playing about his lips.  His eyes were full and desolate all at once.  “Aren’t you, Steve?”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Steve said, feeling angry again, hot and flushed across his face with it.  “All I’m trying to do is show some respect for your decisions.  I can’t do anything right, can I?  Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.  What do you want from me?  To just walk away and forget I ever saw you?”  
  
“That might be a start,” Tony said, and it hurt, it hurt so much Steve _knew_ his eyes were stinging with tears.  He cared about him so, so much, he’d _missed_ him so much, mourned him and been sick to his stomach with longing, with missing him, and right at that moment it felt like Tony didn’t give a damn for him, maybe never had.  He swallowed hard, shook his head without realizing he was doing it at first, as if in mute appeal.  
  
“So that’s it,” he said.  
  
“Maybe it is,” Tony said.  His eyes were dark, unreadable.  
  
“And that’s all Tony Stark comes down to in the end,” Steve said.  “ _Running away_ the first goddamn time things got a little tough.  You’re just going to walk away.  From the Avengers.  From all of it.  Like a coward.”  
  
Tony looked at him, and he didn’t say anything.  He met Steve’s eyes and didn’t look away.  
  
“Well, then I guess you were never a goddamned hero,” Steve said.  “And you were never who I thought you were.”  He got up, grabbed his bag, and the artist’s satchel that held his shield, and dug in his pocket to find money to cover the meal, tossing it carelessly on the table.  “I’ll be back for my bike,” he said, and walked out of the restaurant.  His eyes were stinging, and he could hardly breathe, but this time he didn’t look back.

* * *

  
  
Steve’s temper had always burned hot, and it always took him a while to cool down.  That day, he found the town’s old boxing gym, and stayed there, taking out his frustrations on the heavy bag, for at least three hours.  Eventually, though, his knuckles were starting to sting, and he could feel the strain in his shoulders, and he knew he wasn’t keeping his left up high enough, and he _knew_ Tony would have been able to take advantage of that, if they were sparring, and he was sweating, and the anger started to fade.  
  
And the thing about Steve’s conscience was that it tended to make itself heard, and loudly.  And he knew, he knew he’d handled that badly.  His ma would have told him so, too, but he didn’t need her there to know how badly he’d handled that.  Worse, he’d hurt Tony, he knew he had.  How could he not have?  And for what?  Because Steve was angry and upset that Tony hadn’t told him the truth?  Tony was _alive_ , had been there, right in front of him, close enough to touch.  Steve _had_ touched him.  And he’d ended by calling him a coward and stalking away, like a self-righteous idiot.  And all because what Tony had been saying had been hard for him to hear.  Had hurt him.  
  
Well, Tony was hurt, too.  Just thinking about what he’d said, how he’d called himself a murderer ( _how many times do I have to kill before I get the point, huh_ ), made Steve feel sick, made something in chest heave and throb with pain.  He leaned forward, knocked his forehead against the bag, and took a deep breath, breathing in the scent of chalk and burlap and his own sweat.  
  
Tony wasn’t thinking straight right now, that was clear.  And the things Steve had said—they probably hadn’t helped with any of that.  Probably pretty far from helped.  Had he come here to help Tony, or just to make things worse?  
  
Sure, he was furious with Tony for not telling him he was still alive, where he was, how he was, for not telling him anything, for keeping the truth from him and from the other Avengers.  He could still feel himself shaking a little, with that anger, with the aftereffects of it.  But if he was honest with himself, a big part of that was hurt.  Hurt that Tony hadn’t told him.  Hurt that he’d trusted Rhodes and Ms. Potts so much more than he’d trusted Steve.  Hurt because Steve had missed him so much, feared for him so much, and Tony had been right here all that time.  And wasn’t that a little stupid, when Tony hadn’t even told Jarvis, the man who had practically raised him, who Tony trusted implicitly with every secret system and proprietary technology in the Avengers’ mansion, who Tony had always trusted with more than his life?  
  
Steve had probably taken things a little bit too personally.  He did that, especially when it came to Tony, he could—he could admit that.  Sure, he’d been angry, but Tony deserved better from him than that, especially when Tony was already in a bad way.  And wasn’t he?  It was clear that Tony wasn’t exactly doing so great; Steve had been noticing signs of that ever since he’d first laid eyes on him, from his overall thinness to the dark circles around his eyes, the pallor of his skin to the full, messy beard.  Steve had never known Tony not to shave and carefully shape his beard except when he was feeling totally miserable.  
  
He’d been too hard on him, Steve thought, and swallowed hard, unhappily.  He owed Tony an apology.  And considering what he’d said—well, it had better be one hell of an apology.  
  
Steve left the gym with a thank you to the owner, then headed to find himself a motel room to shower and change into a clean shirt and undershirt and a fresh pair of jeans.  He shrugged into his leather jacket as he left.  He wondered if Tony was still at work.  
  
To find him, he headed back to the auto shop, since that was about the only place he knew Tony had been frequenting these days.  He told the proprietor (Carl?) that he was a friend of “Eddie’s” and that he’d been looking for him to catch up, but that they’d had a fight and he’d like to apologize.  So, the truth, essentially.  The man eyed him dubiously, and then must have decided he was trustworthy enough, because he told him that “Eddie” rented the rooms above the auto shop, and also that he’d come back early from work at the Restoration Project without a word to him, and that he “sure hadn’t looked that good.”  Steve felt his stomach give a sick little flip of guilt, even as he took care to thank the man politely.  
  
So he had really . . . really fucked up.  If Tony was coming home early from work . . . that was serious.  That was a big deal.  Tony wasn’t the type to come home early, not ever, really, pretty much the opposite.  And it seemed like his work at the Restoration Project really meant a lot to him; he wouldn’t have come early if it wasn’t . . . if he could have kept himself going on it.  Steve—Steve must have really gotten to him.  
  
Steve ended up taking the stairs the man had pointed out two at a time.  He didn’t know why it suddenly seemed so urgent to get back to Tony and apologize, just that it did, and he didn’t question it.  He opened the door into the short corridor the man had mentioned and found what had to be Tony’s door right there in the dingy hallway.  
  
He paused there, just for a moment.  It was almost surreal to think Tony was living here of all places, and he had no damn idea what he was going to say—but there was no point to waiting.  Steve stepped up to the door and knocked with as much as conviction as he could manage.  
  
There was no reply.  He paused a moment, thinking, then leaned against the wall beside the door, inclined his head toward it.  “Tony?” he called.  “Tony, are you in there?”  
  
There was no answer.  Steve knocked again on the door with his knuckles, leaned his head back against the wall and took a deep breath.  
  
“Tony?” he said.  “It’s me, Steve.  I’m sorry for what I said.  I need to talk to you.  Can you hear me?”  
  
The door wrenched open a moment later, startling Steve enough he reached for the shield in his artist’s portfolio before he realized it was just Tony standing there, wide-eyed and panting.  “Steve?” he said, breathless and shocked.  His voice was hoarse, scratchy and raw, and he looked—well, quite frankly he looked terrible, even paler than he had earlier, wide eyes bloodshot and rimmed with red and looking even more bruised in that pale face, his hair a wild mess all over the place.  He was wearing a grease-stained white tank top and sweatpants.  “Steve,” he said again, hardly more than a breath.  His eyes were still wide and shocked, and he sounded like he hardly believed it.  
  
“Tony,” Steve said with a nod, and then swallowed.  “Did you—did you hear what I said?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, wonderingly.  He blinked rapidly, then scoured a hand across his eyes, still staring at Steve, then smiled a little tremulously, wry and uncertain on his face.  “Well, uh, don’t just stand there yelling so everyone can hear you,” he said, and stepped back, gesturing a little vaguely for Steve to step into the room before he just let his hand fall rather helplessly to his side.  
  
The place was small and just about as dingy as it had looked from the outside.  It was clean—pretty much spotless, as Steve had come to expect from Tony over the years, but messy, with clothes and books and bits of machinery strewn all over it, and just—not in good repair.  The paint was peeling off the walls, and had once been white a long time ago.  There was only one room, with what looked like a bathroom off of it in one corner, and another door in one wall (so maybe another room?).  There was a tall bookcase against one wall, a shorter bookcase next to it, though they both had only a few books and more machine parts.  There was a table and a desk, and a counter against one wall under some even dingier windows with broken blinds that had a sink in it, a single burner of a stove, with an old coffeemaker next to it.  Someone had put a mini-fridge on the floor.  There was a bed in the other corner, a ratty old sofa against the other wall.  
  
Something about it reminded of the place he’d shared with his ma in the Lower East Side, before the war.  But more than any of that, what Steve’s attention immediately went to was the bottle of cheap whiskey sitting on the desk, and the full glass in front of it.  Tony’s gaze followed his, and his lips twisted in an ironic, cynical sort of smile.  “Gonna ream me out for drinking again, Cap?”  
  
“That depends,” Steve said, and it came out very low and soft.  “Have you been drinking again?”  
  
“I don’t know if it’s any of your business,” Tony said, then blinked rapidly and looked away.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t know.  If you’d come a little bit later, maybe.  I guess I was seeing how long I could hold out.  Not sure how much longer I would have lasted, to be honest.”  He gave a rough, self-mocking sort of laugh.  
  
Steve wished he knew how much of that was true, but, well, the bottle was practically full, and so was the glass.  Tony didn’t smell at all like alcohol, or he would have smelled it on him at the door.  “I don’t think you would have taken that drink, even if I hadn’t showed up,” he said.  
  
Tony’s eyes gave that dangerous glitter again, behind his eyelashes, and he crossed over to the desk.  “Want to bet me on that?” he asked, and his hand curled around the glass.  
  
He didn’t lift it, but Steve’s heart still stopped in his chest, leapt up into his throat.  All he could think was _no.  No, no, no_.  It was a strange kind of panic, a clawing helplessness he hadn’t felt for a long time, that he hardly ever felt, a wash of fear that left him clammy and sweating and probably pale to the lips.  He couldn’t be the reason Tony took another drink—not when he’d been sober so long, and—it couldn’t be because Steve had been stupid enough to challenge him on it, it couldn’t.  
  
God, had he hurt Tony so badly he’d been about to take a drink, to start drinking again?  Had he done that to him?  Christ.  He—he hadn’t—he hadn’t realized.  Hadn’t even thought about it being that bad.  
  
Tony met his eyes levelly for a moment longer.  His hand was shaking again, Steve realized, where it curled around the glass.  “See,” Tony murmured.  “You don't trust me at all.  You went white as a sheet, Steve.”  
  
Steve didn’t say anything.  He was too afraid to say the wrong thing.  
  
Tony dug in his pocket and brought out something else.  Very deliberately, he laid it on the desk next to the glass full of whiskey.  It was his sobriety chip, Steve realized.  “What’s it gonna be?” Tony murmured.  His eyes were so wide and dark in his face, almost spooked.  Fine tremors were running up and down over his arms, over his shoulders.  
  
“You tell me,” Steve said.  He, very badly, wanted to take a step forward and lay a hand on Tony’s arm, his shoulder, take him in his arms, and hold him.  He didn’t.  
  
“Cheers,” Tony said, and closed his eyes.  Steve felt something twist up tight and claw at his chest in agony.  Tony picked up the glass—and then walked over to the sink and poured it out.  He put the glass in the sink, top down, and then stood there, hands braced on the edge of the sink.  He was panting, shaking visibly.  
  
Oh, God.  The relief was like—like a reprieve, like he could breathe again when he’d been drowning.  Steve stepped forward and grabbed the bottle, brought it over to the sink and turned it upside down over the drain and poured it out.  Only when it was empty, after he’d run the water in the sink to wash it down and help dissipate the smell, which was thick in the air, did he put his hand on Tony’s back, felt how he was shaking, fine tremors clawing their way down over his spine.  He was drenched in cold sweat.  
  
“It’s all right, Tony,” Steve murmured.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry.  Hey.  You did it.  You did it.  I’m proud of you.  C’mere.”  He slid one hand onto Tony’s bare arm, and when he didn’t flinch away, he turned Tony in toward him, wrapped both arms around him and brought him close against his chest.  Tony was tall, and it was almost a little awkward, but then he made a small, gasping, choking groan in the back of his throat and leaned in against Steve.  “Shh,” Steve said, and rubbed his hand, his knuckles, over Tony’s shoulders, then down, over his spine.  God, he was so thin.  He curled his other hand around the back of Tony’s neck and squeezed.  
  
It felt like he’d been yearning to do that for an eternity.  Tony was shivering, and when Steve squeezed at the back of his neck, he made a helpless noise and swayed in toward him, just for a moment, and then he was pulling back, out of Steve’s arms.  
  
“You don’t have to take pity on me,” he said, almost viciously.  “You don’t have to give me a—a fucking hug, just for that.  Just for not taking a _fucking_ drink.  I should be strong enough that it’s not even a question.  Damn it, Steve, don’t you ever get tired of making excuses for me?”  He stalked over to the desk.  
  
Steve was left standing there, not sure what to do or say, as Tony clipped the desk chair with one knee and then swore, braced himself on the desk with both hands and didn’t look at him.  
  
He took a deep breath.  He’d come there to apologize, he told himself.  He’d better do that.  Especially since—oh, God—since apparently what he’d said had nearly driven Tony to start drinking again.   If he thought about that too much he thought he might be sick.  “It’s not pity, Tony,” he said, and thank God, his voice came out steady.  
  
“What is it, then?” Tony asked, a low question, almost muttered, without raising his head or looking back at him.  
  
“I—I’m sorry for—for saying something that pushed you that far,” Steve said, and swallowed.  “I never wanted to—make you start drinking again.  I’m sorry for what I said.  I’m sorry for hurting you.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony said.  “So it’s guilt.  Well, don’t worry, Steve.  I was teetering on the edge, already, anyway.  You don’t have to feel responsible for pushing my fragile mental state to the brink.”  
  
Why did Tony always have to be so goddamn difficult?  But that wasn’t fair.  Steve knew he wasn’t in a good place right now.  God knew he didn’t like letting other people see his vulnerable sides any more than Tony did.  He’d probably be being just as much of a jerk about it.  
  
“No,” Steve said, sighing and putting his hands on his hips.  “I do feel responsible.  I feel bad about it.  Tony, I—I shouldn’t have said that.  I lost my temper, and I took it out on you.  That was wrong of me.  And—and what I said.  It was, it was cruel.  I should never have said that to you.  I was—upset.  You mean a lot to me, you know.  A whole hell of a lot.”  
  
Tony swallowed, Steve could see it.  He braced his hands on the desk, looked up, across the room, staring at the windows.  “Did you mean it?” he asked softly.  It wasn’t much more than a wisp of breath with a little voice behind it. “What you said.”  His voice was stronger that time.  “Did you mean it?”  
  
“I was upset,” Steve repeated.  It wasn’t easy to admit this.  “You were—I was afraid I was losing you for good, and I lashed out.  I’m not proud of it.”  He took a deep breath, and blew it out.  “No, Tony, of course I didn’t mean it.  And it’s not true.  You’re not a coward.  And you always were a hero.”  
  
Tony leaned down over the desk, pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes.  “You—you don’t know—” he said, and his voice was thick and choked, as if with tears.  “What—it was just—it’s just that what you said, it’s.  It’s been what I’ve been thinking this whole time.  That—that I’m a coward.  That I’m, I’m weak.  I’m not a hero, Steve, I’m a murderer.  I—I don’t know what I’m doing, Steve.  I—I’ve felt so lost.  Like I don’t even know who—who I am anymore.”  He was shaking again.  “It was hard to hear you—you say the same exact things I’ve been thinking.”  His voice dropped down to be little more than a whisper.  “It made it feel like it was all true,” he said.  His hands were shaking again, and he pressed them together.  “I am a murderer,” he muttered, and it sounded like he was talking to himself.  
  
“No,” Steve said.  He felt sick again, nauseated and guilty.  “Tony, no.  It is absolutely not true.  Don’t listen to me lashing out at you, don’t—don’t do that to yourself.  Don’t you do that to yourself.”  
  
“God, you don’t have a clue what I’ve been doing to myself,” Tony muttered, and dragged both hands back through his hair.  
  
“You could tell me,” Steve offered, though he wasn’t sure if he’d be any use at all.  He usually wasn’t, when it came to comforting people, or being reassuring in any situation outside of a crisis.  “I—that’s why I came, to help you.  Just make use of me.  Anything you need.”  
  
“God,” Tony murmured, and when he looked up, his eyes looked shiny and wet, liquid and glistening in the low light of the room.  “You’re so goddamn—goddamn good.  Don’t you ever get tired of being so damn generous?”  
  
Steve had just been monstrously cruel to Tony.  How could Tony call him generous?  
  
Steve tried a tremulous little smile.  “Not to you,” he said.  
  
Tony pressed the heel of his hand to one eye as he closed them again, took a deep unsteady breath, then pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.  “Steve,” he said, and it was unsteady, thready and gasping, like he was the one drowning now.  
  
“Listen to me,” Steve said.  “You’re not a murderer.  It wasn’t your fault.  It was Kang, using you.  And you’re not weak, or a coward.  I—I understand how difficult it must be.  To remember, to have him—use you like that.  But, Tony, you were just as much his victim as the people he used you to kill.  You died, too.”  Before he knew what he was doing, he’d taken the few strides forward that he needed to grab hold of Tony’s shoulders again.  “You _died_ , Tony,” he said, and it came out choked and thick.  He’d held him, then, he suddenly thought, unbidden.  He still remembered the feeling of his arms around Tony as he choked out his last breath, as he went limp.  He remembered closing his staring eyes.  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, unsteadily, his chest heaving.  “I know.  It—it wasn’t fun.  I—I remember all of it, Steve.”  He looked up at him, and his eyes did look lost, lost and pleading and dark, wild with emotion.  “I remember everything—three lives, and I don’t know which of them is me.  I remember killing them.  I remember _wanting_ to.  I remember when—when I attacked myself, and I remember wanting to kill the—the younger Tony.  Me.  I remember the pain of my injuries, and I remember dying, I remember the terrible . . . emptiness when Kang wasn’t there controlling me anymore, and I—I don’t know—” he broke off, looked away.  “I might be going crazy,” he said, and his voice was even, steady, so tightly controlled it sounded like it would snap in two, brittle with its evenness.  
  
God.  That—that would be enough to push anyone to the edge.  No wonder Tony was struggling with the drink.  And if he was still holding onto his sobriety chip, he hadn’t taken a drink before Steve got there—Steve knew Tony, and he knew he’d be honest with himself about that.  All that, and he hadn’t been pushed to that edge until Steve had shown up and—and yelled at him.  He felt a dizzying sense of shame, with an edge of nausea.  
  
“Yeah, that sounds like—that’s a lot,” he said, forcing himself to try a little smile, and reaching out, rubbing his hand at the back of Tony’s neck again, curling it into his hair, just for a moment, and letting it curve to cup his jaw.  He felt cold, clammy with cold sweat.  The back of his neck was damp.  Tony swayed on his feet.  
  
“It’s been such a—a long day,” he mumbled.  “I’m sorry.  I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I don’t know what I’m doing talking to you like this . . . God, Steve, I still can’t believe you’re even here.”  
  
“Look,” Steve said.  “Why don’t you sit down?  I’ll make some coffee, if you have any around here, and we’ll talk a little, all right?”  
  
“Is this Steve Rogers being comforting and domestic?” Tony asked, but he smiled at him a little.  “All right, I guess I’ll take it.  There’s, uh, right, there’s coffee in the cupboard.”  
  
There was only one cupboard, Steve noticed when he looked around, so he guessed that was clear enough.  
  
“Yeah, that’s how it is,” Steve said.  “All right, mister, let’s get you sitting down.”  He squeezed Tony’s shoulder, and Tony let him lead him over to the sofa and push him down.  He started over for the coffeemaker, then, though he cast a glance back at Tony.  He was sitting there on the couch, still shaking a little, shivering, really, and as Steve watched he wrapped his arms around himself.  He was staring at the opposite wall, and his eyes were far away.  Steve _recognized_ that look, that damn look.  He’d seen it enough in the war.  God, he thought.  Tony.  
  
But what had he expected?  Tony had been through enough to give anyone pause.  He hadn’t even been a soldier to begin with.  Of course he was traumatized, Steve told himself.  He should treat him like he’d have treated any of the boys with battle fatigue, back in the war.  His triggers wouldn’t be the same, but, well, that look was the same.  He could work from that.  Making coffee was familiar, so he got that started, but all the while he was thinking.  “Do you have anything to eat around here?” he asked, and Tony jumped, flinched like he’d startled him.  
  
Jesus.  Well, that was pretty much what he’d expected.  
  
“I,” Tony said, then reached up, rubbed at his forehead, took a deep, shaking breath.  “No?  Maybe a little yoghurt.”  He looked up, smiled a little in Steve’s direction.  “Nothing like the kind of thing that could satisfy a super-soldier.”  
  
“Hey, I had a whole half a sandwich at lunch,” Steve said teasingly, smiling back.  “I was just wondering—I don’t know, how about a few crackers?  Just something to snack on.”  
  
“You could check in that cupboard,” Tony said.  He sounded highly doubtful, but when Steve went to check, there was a box of saltines.  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, pulling out the package.  “Would you look at that?”  
  
“It’s probably been there since the Korean War,” Tony said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  Steve turned it over.  The expiration date was the next year.  
  
“I think you must have bought them,” he said.  “Anyway, they’re not open.”  
  
“All right,” Tony said.  “I don’t know.  Maybe whoever lived here before did.  Anyway.  Crackers, yay.”  
  
“And yoghurt, you said?” Steve asked.  There was a jar of peanut butter in the cabinet, he noticed, so he took that out and put it on the counter.  
  
“Crackers and yoghurt, breakfast of champions,” Tony muttered.  
  
“Hey, don’t knock it,” Steve said.  “I’m not one who made the food choices around here.”  He opened the minifridge.   As Tony had implied, there wasn’t much inside it.  There was a package of Oreos, and, yes, a carton of yoghurt, and one of eggs.  There was also a carton of milk.  “Eggs?” Steve asked.  
  
Tony made a disgusted face.  “Ugh,” he said, sounding a little nauseated at the thought.  “No, thanks.”  
  
“All right,” Steve said.  “Why do you have Oreos in your refrigerator?”  
  
“I like them cold,” Tony muttered.  
  
That was something he hadn’t known about Tony, Steve mused.  He shook some saltines out onto a plate, also from the cupboard, and found a knife to slather them with peanut butter, then also tipped some cold Oreos onto the plate.  When the coffee was finished, he did actually find two mugs to pour it into, though he was pretty sure two mugs were all that Tony had, and poured milk into both, too.  Tony didn’t seem to have any sugar around anywhere.  Steve knew how that went.  He took the plate and both mugs back over to where Tony sat on the couch, and handed him one mug, handle first.  Tony took it hesitantly, looking up at Steve, then down again.  “You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.  
  
“I put some peanut butter on some crackers and made some coffee, Tony,” Steve said.  “It isn’t ‘all this.’  Here.”  He laid the plate down on the couch cushion, then sat on the other end of it.  “This all right?”  
  
“It’s fine,” Tony said.  He sipped the coffee hesitantly, looking away again.  He must have been aware of Steve’s eyes on him, though, because he picked up a cracker and took a hesitant bite of it, after a moment.  Steve let him finish it, then pick up an Oreo and eat that, too, before he spoke again.  
  
“So,” he said.  “You were saying—about Kang.  You were telling me . . . about it.  About what happened then.”    
  
Tony flinched, again, run a hand back into his hair and took a hoarse, shuddery breath.  “You—you don't want to hear about that,” he said, and God, there was something in his tone—he sounded so hopeless, helpless, like he’d given up hope a long time ago.  
  
“Of course I do,” Steve said firmly.  “I want to hear it from your perspective.  Hell, Tony, if nothing else, as leader of the Avengers I should hear the story from you, don’t you think?  It’ll help me figure out how to handle . . . I don’t know, mind control and Kang and Space Phantoms in the future.”  
  
Tony’s brow furrowed.  “Space Phantoms?” he said, sounding confused.  
  
“I don’t know,” Steve said.  “When I looked into it later, I found out that some of the people involved—like Mantis—were actually Space Phantoms Kang was using as part of his master plan, to confuse us and keep us off balance.  Luna was being impersonated by one of them for a while, too.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony said.  He looked down at his coffee.  “Oh.  Yeah, that—that makes more sense.  I never felt like working for Kang was Mantis’s style.  And because the Vision rejected her?  None of that made any sense to me.”  
  
Had he been there for all that, or had he just hacked in and read the reports after?  Probably the second.  Steve couldn’t grudge him that, though; it was his right, and if something like that, any of it, had happened to him, he’d be desperate for any information that might make it make sense to him.  Besides, Tony still had all the top Avengers clearances, just like he always had; it wouldn’t really have been hacking, except for how none of them had known he was alive.  
  
“I haven’t written that part up yet,” Steve said, a little apologetically.  He’d kept meaning to, but—but doing it made it feel more real, that Tony hadn’t come back, and he’d just kept putting it off.  He took a sip of his own coffee.  “A lot of it still doesn't make any sense to me, either.”  
  
“You and me both,” Tony muttered, turning his coffee cup slowly in his hands.  He swallowed, hard.  “I guess if I’m telling you, I should go back to the beginning,” he added in a low voice.  
  
“It sounds like a good place to start,” Steve said.  He tried to keep his voice patient, encouraging.  He was never sure how well he did at that.  
  
“It’s just,” Tony said, and then stopped.  “Well.  I mean.  When I was drinking, it was . . . it was a gradual thing, you know?  I thought I was fine, I wasn’t drinking too much, I could handle it.  I just needed a little right now, to—to help me relax, or help me sleep, or turn off my brain, or help with my headache, or to make me more—more charming, more relaxed at a party, and before I knew it, it’s all about the next drink, more than it’s about anything else, and I’m drinking to drink.  You know?  Well,” he gave a self-deprecating little snort of a laugh.  “You don’t, I know that.  You wouldn’t.  But.  Um.  Another part of the reason—God, this is hard to say to you.”  He ran a hand back, clawing it through his messy curls, twisted it into a fist at the back of his neck, gripping roughly.  “When Beth left me,” he said, “it was rough.  She was the whole reason I’d gotten sober in the first place, really, and—and when she left me to go back to her husband, it kind of felt like, I guess, what was the point of that?  I’d gotten sober, cleaned up my act, and I still wasn’t—wasn’t enough, wasn’t good enough, wasn’t enough of a man to keep her.  Sour grapes, I know.  It’s not the greatest side of me.  But it was—well, that was how I felt.”  
  
It sounded like a normal response to rejection to Steve, but he kept his mouth shut.  
  
“I guess what I’m saying is,” Tony added, “I didn’t feel too . . . great about myself.  Not like I could . . . could keep anyone around.  Not like I was worth it.  I mean, I was feeling pretty down on myself, I guess.  I felt pretty . . . worthless.  Like a waste of space.  A waste of—of people’s time.”  
  
Steve swallowed at that, more than a little startled.  Tony had felt like that?  God, he’d thought Tony had hung the moon.  Tony was so sophisticated and rich and handsome and brilliant, always had been, and Steve was just—just an old relic, a fossil, a stick-in-the-mud kid from the Lower East Side.  
  
He’d had no idea.  He’d admired Tony so much.  He wished he could have told him that.  Maybe it would have helped, maybe not, but Tony deserved to know.  
  
“Anyway,” Tony said, a little hurriedly, Steve thought.  “Then I fell in love again, and it felt—it felt so good.  I felt—I felt wonderful, wonderful and strong and clever and brave, and happy.  I was so happy, Steve.  And then, um, well, it all sort of turned around on me.  She told me what she really thought of me, you see.  And it was that I was a lot of money and nothing else, nothing but a, a glossy shell.  A ‘preening poseur’ was, I think, the exact phrase.  She said I hid my inadequacies behind, God, I still remember it, ‘a credit card sophistication,’ that I was a petulant child with a minor talent for electronic tinkering and a, a quivering ego.  That she was amused by me, liked taking gifts from me and uh, watching me pant after her like a puppy dog, but nothing else.  The thing was, she was . . . right?  At least, right enough that I could see myself in what I was saying.  I believed everything she said about me.  It felt true.”  Tony’s hands tightened on his mug, and he curled forward, over it, took a deep, shuddering breath.  “I thought she’d loved me the way I loved her, you know?” he said, in a very small voice, not the type Steve was used to hearing from Tony at all.  “Or I would never have—have asked her to deal with any of my problems.  But I was just fooling myself.”  
  
“What the hell?” Steve said, and his voice sounded far too loud in the small apartment.  “What the—what the _fuck_?  Who the hell could say something like that to you?  I mean, maybe she didn’t love you, but—holy _shit_ , Tony, that’s—that’s goddamn awful, that’s . . . .”  
  
“Well, as it turned out, she’d been hired by Obadiah Stane to drive me back into the bottle,” Tony said, looking up at him with a wry twist of his mouth.  “And the thing of it is, it worked.  I dived in headfirst.”  He took a deep breath, blew it out.  
  
Jesus, Steve thought, distantly.  God, he’d had no idea any of that had happened.  And he’d been so hard on Tony, too—he still remembered the way he’d looked, eyes lost and glassy with tears, on the floor of that goddamn flophouse.  The way it had reeked of alcohol.  
  
He’d wanted to help him then, so much, and he’d just made things worse.  He hoped he wasn’t well on his way to repeating history.  
  
God.  
  
Steve wanted to hold him again, but he wasn’t sure if that would be welcome.  
  
“I should have been stronger,” Tony said, swallowing so hard Steve could see his Adam’s apple bobbing, see his throat constricting with it.  “But, well, I wasn’t.  And you know that, but that—that’s not the point I was trying to make.  The point is, well, I thought she was one thing when she was something else.  Just like I thought—I thought Beth would stay, and she didn’t.  And then, later on, when I got my company back, and I found out Stane had sold off my designs to the highest bidder—and then when Cly decided I was the bad guy and she, she died because of that—”  
  
Cly? Steve thought blankly, and then, oh, Clytemnestra Erwin.  She’d been one of Tony’s friends when—when he’d been putting his life back together after Stane and the drinking.  Steve had never even known she’d died.  
  
“And I guess what I mean is,” Tony said, “I started getting paranoid.  Like, not just a little healthy paranoia,” he gave a wry laugh at that and a shake of his head, “but full on, full blown paranoia.  I didn’t know which way was up, really, who to trust—well, you know, because I was fighting with you about things.  About the Kree Supreme Intelligence—”  
  
Oh, yeah, Steve remembered that one, that was for sure.  
  
“—And other stuff,” Tony said, and his fingers were curling into a fist in his sweatpants, scrunching up in the fabric.  “I mean, I’m not saying I was wrong about all of it.  One of my girlfriends did literally shoot me in the spine—well, she wasn’t really a girlfriend, but I thought she was harmless right up until—well, that’s not important.  But I was really, I mean, I was pretty messed up, Steve.  Tense and suspicious and—I just didn’t know which way was up.  And—and the thing of it is, sometime in there, Kang got to me, and started working on me.  But I don’t know _when_ , and I don’t—I don’t know how.  I didn’t feel—off, or strange at all, right up until I started having headaches and blacking out, or at least no stranger than usual, but I know he must have gotten to me before that, and—”  He took a deep breath, covered his face with one hand.  “I guess,” he said, after a moment, “I guess that’s what scares me about it.  The not knowing.  That I can’t, actually, say when it started, or when he first got to me.  So I can’t tell you how someone might be able to tell, or what the warning signs might be, because I didn’t have a fucking clue when he was doing it to me.”  
  
“God, Tony,” Steve said softly.  He guessed—he guessed he’d never realized.  He’d been so caught up in his own problems, that he hadn’t even seen that Tony had—had been struggling _that much_.  He’d known he had his problems, of course, but to him it had seemed like, well, it had seemed like the drinking was the main one, and when Tony’d gotten sober, he’d thought . . . he’d thought he was okay.  But that had been naïve, unforgivably naïve, he thought now.  He should have known better than that.  He should have—he should have been there for him.  More than he had been.  Maybe if he had, he would have seen what Kang was doing to him, even.  
  
Tony’s shoulders jumped up around his ears.  “Don’t pity me, Steve,” he snapped.  
  
“It’s not pity,” Steve said, stung.  “I just—care about you.”  It sounded lame, even to his own ears.  “Does feeling for you when you’re hurt have to be pity?” he asked, more hotly this time.  
  
Tony flinched back away from him, but a moment later he was squaring his shoulders and staring Steve right in the face.  “I’m the one who hurt other people,” he said, mouth curling, “I don’t know why you can’t see that; you’re usually all about the greater good, aren’t you, _Cap_?”  
  
“Okay, come on,” Steve said, goaded.  “What do you want me to say?  Of course I care about what happened, about the people that monster made you hurt, but you’re here now, Tony, and I care about _you_ , too.  I don’t think those two things are mutually exclusive, whatever you’ve convinced yourself of in that head of yours.”  
  
“See?” Tony said, throwing one hand out wide, his eyes wide.  “Even you think I’m delusional!”  
  
“I didn’t say delusional!” Steve snapped, and only later heard how his voice thundered through the small room, louder than he’d meant it to be.  He could see how dramatically Tony flinched back from him, his eyes going wide and wild so that the whites showed around the edges, and cursed himself, made himself take a deep breath.  “I think that you’ve been going around in circles on it for a long time,” Steve said.  “I think maybe you’re not thinking straight, maybe you’ve analyzed it to death, that’s all.  You’ve been . . . hurting about this and alone with no one to talk to—well, I guess, since you came back.  You have to know that doesn't produce the clearest thinking.  But it doesn't mean you’re crazy, either!”  
  
“But I feel crazy, Steve!” Tony practically shouted back, then flinched again, as if from the loudness of his own voice, and Steve almost flinched himself at the harsh crack in Tony’s voice.  “I remember it in—in bits, and pieces,” he said then, in a quieter tone.  “Pieces of—of three different lives, and sometimes I remember being angry, attacking my—my teenaged self, and sometimes I remember it _as_ my teenage self, afraid and—terrified, honestly, but stupid and brash and impulsive, just trying to live up to what all of you expect, and then the, the pain, horrible pain.”  Tony had crossed his arms over his chest and was rocking back and forth, at that, eyes far away, and then he took a deep breath, flinched again, brought his arms down and stiffened, sitting up straight.  “I remember the—the other world we ended up in, too,” he said, more clearly.  “How I was there . . . I’m not sure I liked myself much there, but I remember it.  Do you remember that other world, Steve?  Something about Franklin Richards—wanting to save us, creating another dimension, a pocket dimension, then bringing us back?”  He looked at Steve uncertainly, as if Steve was sure to tell him he was imagining things.  
  
“I remember it,” Steve said.  He remembered that girl he called Bucky.  He remembered Tony’s face.  “It’s fading quickly, though.”  
  
Tony bit his lip.  “It’s not, really,” he said.  “Fading, I mean.  For me.  I don’t know why that would be.”  He leaned forward, ran a hand through his hair.  “I remember . . . sleeping with Pepper, because I knew when we came back, if we even made it, everything would be different.”  He winced.  “God, that doesn’t say anything too good about me, either.”  
  
He’d slept with Ms. Potts?  That was—that was . . . kind of strange to hear, though Steve knew they’d always had _something_ between them.  He figured Ms. Potts probably hadn’t been married in the other world, then.  Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure Ms. Potts was married now, though she had mentioned her husband to him, hadn’t she?  Mr. Hogan?  That was probably none of Steve’s business.  
  
Tony sighed, wrapped both hands around his coffee cup, looking across the room at the opposite wall and not at Steve.  “Honestly, Steve, it’s all a confused jumble,” he said after a moment.  “I couldn’t even tell you what happened, probably.  I don’t remember it clearly at all.  I remember—pictures, images, feelings.  A lot of feelings, but they’re all confused and none of them make much sense.  I know what happened mostly because I read the Avengers reports.  My own memory—well, I couldn’t piece that much together.”  
  
Steve tried to recall what he’d put in his report on the incident.  God.  Had he been—kind?  He’d tried to be fair to Tony, he remembered that much vividly.  “I’m sorry if they were . . .” he started.  
  
Tony gave a rough, ironic little laugh.  “No, yours were incredibly generous to me,” he said, turned his coffee cup in his hand before he took a swallow.  “More generous than I deserved,” he said, more quietly.  “It was obvious your, uh, your affection for me was biasing you a little.”  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, warningly.  “I was just being fair.  Like I said, it wasn’t your fault.  Kang made you do those things.  If any of the others were harder on you, they were out of line.”  
  
Tony gave him a sad, crooked smile.  “Steve,” he said.  
  
“It’s not like most of them could say they’ve never been brainwashed,” Steve said.  He took a deep breath.  “Tony, I know I—I really have no idea what you’ve been through.  Maybe you do feel like your brains have been scrambled; I’m sure I’d feel the same.  But I do know that it wasn’t your fault.  It was obviously Kang calling the shots.  Everything you did was entirely to his benefit, and not to yours, or anyone else’s.  I know you, Tony; I know how dang smart you are.  If you’d been in control of any of it at all, you would have been able to get something more than you did out of it, something _you_ wanted.  But instead he just—he just used you up and tossed you away when he was done with you.”  Steve took a deep breath, and it came ragged and shaking, blew it out.  “I saw you when he was done with you,” he reminded Tony quietly.  “When you were—were finally free of whatever he’d done to you.  I—I held you as you died.  You were crying.”  He’d never seen Tony so broken, never.  Of course, he’d been dying, but one of those didn’t necessarily go along with the other.  
  
He never wanted to see him like that again.  
  
“You did,” Tony said, quietly.  “Did I thank you for that?  I should thank you for that.  I—well, I—it.  It was.  Going above and beyond the call of friendship there, Steve, seriously.”  
  
“It was the least I could do,” Steve said, and damn it, it came out choked up, thick and wet.  It had been _all_ he could do, and he’d hated it, hated that, hated that he’d done too little, too late, that he hadn’t even known what was happening until it was all almost over and done with.  
  
“It wasn’t a bad way to go,” Tony murmured, staring at his coffee again.  “At least I could stop Kang.  And—and I went in the arms of a, a friend.”  
  
“I’m glad you’re back,” Steve said.  “Alive, I mean.  Even if—even without the rest of it.  I missed you so much.  I—” he didn’t know what else to say, and his voice got tangled up on the lump on his throat, choked and died.  “I missed you so much,” he said again, softer.  
  
“I missed you, too,” Tony said, very low and very quiet.  “I mean, I—I have missed you.  I’m not sure if I said that before.  But it’s true.  I missed you, Winghead.”  
  
Steve felt that lump in his throat thicken up even more, almost painful, even as he smiled.  “No one calls me Winghead like you do,” he said, and it came out hoarse and thick.  
  
Tony smiled a little, ducked his head, waved it off, but it was true.  Plenty of people called Steve Winghead, that was true, but none of them did it quite like Tony.  It was somehow special when Tony said it.  
  
There was a moment of silence, and then Tony took another swallow of his coffee.  “Right,” he said, and it came out hoarse, very scratchy, like it was scraping over his throat.  “I was telling you everything I know.  I—I should probably get back to that, not stop in the middle.  I barely got started, really.”  
  
“All right,” Steve said.  If Tony needed to talk it out, the least he could do was listen, he figured.  
  
“I think what really bothers me is not knowing when he got to me,” Tony said abruptly.  “I’ve been thinking about it so much, and I really don’t know.  How long was I his sleeper agent in the Avengers?” he shivered, a spasmodic motion.  “It makes me sick to my stomach to—to think about it.  To think about the damage I could have done.  I—I know everything about the mansion, Steve, the codes, the defenses, I—I could have done so much worse than I did.  And I remember thinking about it, and it’s so—so surreal, so twisted, because I don’t remember why I’d be thinking that way, or why I’d want to.  It’s like some kind of weird dream.  I remember feeling certain ways, I—I remember how it felt when I killed them, even, and I was _satisfied_ , God, it makes me sick.”  He pressed the back of one hand to his mouth, dashed it over his eyes, and Steve wanted to reach out to him so badly.  “But I don’t remember why, why I felt that way.  I remember thinking about serving Kang, but I don’t remember how that started, and when I do think about it, it’s—it’s vague and fuzzy, like, like I dreamed it or something.”  He took a breath, blew it out.  “I mean.  I know how this all probably sounds.”  He gave a nervous-sounding, self-conscious kind of a laugh.  “I thought maybe it was when I was in space—when we all were, with the war and the Kree Supreme Intelligence and all that.  But I don’t know _when_ he could have gotten to me then, or how.  And—and Marianne Rodgers, I don’t . . . know if you remember her; she was my girlfriend for a while, and she had—visions, I guess you’d call them, and she said the—the darkness had been in me for a long time.  She used to wake up screaming, and say it was because of me.”  
  
What the _fuck_.  “Nightmares or not, that’s no way to treat someone,” Steve said.  “What the hell is a fella supposed to do with that?”  Just feel guilty, and wrong, down to the ground, he figured.  
  
“I don’t know,” Tony said, with a weary sounding sigh.  “She was—she was unstable, and I thought it was because she was mentally ill.  I tried to get her treatment.  I don’t know.  She predicted that Kang had me before anyone else did.  So maybe she was right all along.  Maybe there’s just—just something _wrong_ with me, and that was why he could get hold of me the way he did.  Maybe there is . . . some kind of darkness there.”  
  
“Tony, stop it,” Steve said.  “You can’t—can’t beat yourself up because of something some unstable woman might have _imagined_ she saw in you.”  He remembered the woman, vaguely, and he, well, he hadn’t had a strong impression of her sanity.  He’d thought she was totally cuckoo, to tell the truth.  It kind of bothered him, always had, that she had such a similar name to his own.  (She was blonde, too.)  He guessed he wanted to be the only Rogers of importance in Tony’s life, but God, that was moronic.  It sounded so stupid, even in his own head.  
  
He moved forward, moved the plate of crackers so he could get a little closer to Tony, and put one hand on his back.  He was so thin, and shaking, still, wet with cold sweat.  “Tony, come on,” he said, as gently as he could.  “Even if she was really seeing things, who knows what they were.  It doesn’t have to mean there’s anything wrong with you.”  
  
“I just feel so awful about how I betrayed you all,” Tony practically whispered.  His hands were pressed tight to his coffee cup, and he was shaking, his teeth practically chattering, before he took a long, deep breath, blew it out again, like he was trying to get a hold on himself.  “If—if you’re Arthur, I was your, your Lancelot, bringing the Round Table down from the inside.  But I never meant to be.”  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, “I don’t know about that.  Last time I checked you’d never tried to steal my girl.”  
  
Tony’s head swung up, and he stared at him, and then they were both laughing, breaking down into helpless laughter that, Steve could admit, was maybe a little over-emotional on both their parts.  Tony swayed into him, still chuckling, his eyes crinkling up, and Steve got his arm around him just a little more, couldn’t resist pulling him a little tighter into his side.  
  
“And you didn’t bring the Avengers down,” Steve said.  “We withstood you, Stark.  The Avengers got through it.  I’m not saying there’s not—plenty to regret, but that’s not on your shoulders.  The Avengers got closed down after we all disappeared fighting Onslaught, and that’s not on you.  Hell, you—uh, your teenage self.  Uh.  Anyway, you fought with us.”  
  
“It’s confusing for me, too,” Tony said, with the barest sketch of a smile.  “Which of me did what, and when—right.  Anyway.”  He rubbed one hand through his hair again.  “So I don’t know when he got to me,” Tony said, after a moment.  “The first thing I knew about it was when I started having these—headaches.  And I’d been so, well, out of it, what with being paralyzed for while—I was barely recovered from that, really, so I didn’t think too much of it.”  
  
The only reason Steve knew that that had even happened to Tony was because he’d told Steve about it when he was struggling with the degeneration of the serum.  He thought Tony had been trying to make him feel better.  He hadn’t even known before that at all.  He rubbed his knuckles gently up Tony’s spine.  “Yeah?” he said.  
  
“Mmm,” Tony said, and took another quick sip of coffee.  “Part of me keeps wondering if it was VOR/TEX,” he muttered.  “Uh, there was this—I don’t know, technovirus that took me over at one point, kind of possessed my body.”  A quick expression twisted Tony’s face, a spasm of emotion.  “It made me drink.”  
  
Oh, God, Tony.  
  
“Anyway, that’s not the point,” Tony said, but Steve was still hung up on that, thinking about it.  How awful it must have been.  Tony had never breathed a word to him about it until now, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder if that would keep happening, if a thousand bad things would happen to Tony and he’d never say, never tell Steve until he had to.  “The point is, I keep wondering if maybe that was how Kang first laid the groundwork to—to access my brain, later, because I really have no idea.”  He took a deep, ragged breath, gulping in air.  “Anyway, I started having the headaches, and then came—then I started blacking out.  You can see why that might have been a little more concerning, I guess.  But I still didn’t know exactly what was wrong.  And then—sometime after that—it was like whatever . . . whatever Kang had put inside me, the . . . the Kang consciousness, it woke up, and sometimes it was driving the train, and sometimes it wasn’t, and I—I don’t know, sometimes I was fully aware of it all and sometimes I wasn’t, and I guess you can see why I’m pretty confused about this.”  Tony took a deep, hitching, gulping breath.  “Maybe why I might feel a little crazy?  And then, it was, it was, it was after that, that I killed Yellowjacket.  At first I, I didn’t even know I’d done it.  That must sound completely—completely stupid.  But I—I’m not trying to say I didn’t do it, I did it; I’ll admit that to anyone who asks.”  
  
“I know, Tony,” Steve said, letting his hand press on his back gently.  Denying his guilt was pretty much the exact opposite of what Tony had been doing since Steve had gotten here.  
  
Tony was talking even more rapidly now, like he wanted to get it all out at once, twisting one hand against his other wrist nervously like he wanted to be wringing his hands.  “And then I killed Marilla,” he said.  “Can you believe it, at first I thought it wasn’t me?  I thought it had to be someone else.  I didn’t even realize at first.  I, I remember, now, or I think I do, but it’s almost like it was—a, a nightmare or something.  Kang must have somehow shielded that side of me from—me until, I don’t know, until his control was stronger?  Because it wasn’t too much longer until there wasn’t really much left of me that wasn’t his.”  He rubbed one hand harshly over his face, scrubbed it under his nose.  “And then I could remember it all just fine,” he said bitterly.  “Framing Clint for Marilla’s murder, all of it.  When I killed Amanda, I felt nothing but—but relief that a complication was out of the way.”  He covered his mouth with his hand, swallowing hard.  
  
Amanda, Steve thought; she was the one who had worked for Tony’s team, for Force Works.  Amanda . . . Chaney.  God, was that where the name Tony had assumed had come from?  Had he taken it—what, out of guilt?  Jesus Christ.  Steve just rubbed up and down Tony’s back, a few times.  He wasn’t sure what he should say—Tony didn’t seem to want to hear that it wasn’t his fault again—and he didn’t want to interrupt Tony now, if he needed to get this out.  
  
Tony swallowed hard, shivering under Steve’s hand.  He swallowed again, a few times, then spoke again, turning his mug around and around in his hands.  
  
“It’s actually harder to remember after that,” he said.  “It’s mostly just . . . feelings.  And I don’t even know why I felt—those things.  Anger and violence and . . . impatience.”  He buried his face in one hand.  “It reminds me of Howard,” he said in a low voice.    
  
That wasn’t a good thing at all, was it?  God, Tony.  
  
“God, if only I’d been stronger,” Tony muttered.  “They’d still be alive.  Hank—Hank fought him off somehow, I should have—”  
  
“Kang said Hank broke rather than bending,” Steve corrected.  He remembered that part of the whole thing far too clearly.  “Your adaptability and resourcefulness are strengths, Tony, not weaknesses.  It’s not your fault that he was able to use it against you.  I know I’m stubborn; I know my enemies have used it against me before, but that doesn’t mean that nothing good’s come of it either.”  
  
Tony curled his hand roughly through his hair, tugging it as he dragged it back to his neck.  He took a deep, shaking, shuddering breath.  “I wish I had broken rather than betray the team,” he muttered.  
  
Steve slid his hand up to Tony’s shoulder and squeezed.  “Tony, stop,” he said, keeping his voice softer than it wanted to go.  
  
“That’s the thing of it, Steve,” Tony said, muttered really.  “I don’t . . . really know what happened.  I don’t feel stable at all.  I—I don’t know how he got to me, or when, or any of it.  I . . . I was so weak, there’s something wrong with me, there must be, or else how—how did he do it to me?”  
  
“I don’t even know what he did,” Steve admitted.  Some kind of brainwashing, mind control, that much was clear, but how, that he had no idea.  
  
Tony gave a gulping, unsteady breath.  “Me neither,” he said, “so how can I know it won’t happen again?  I turned against you—I hurt so many people, Marilla and Yellowjacket and Amanda and Jan, I hurt Jan, and I thought none of you would even want to see me again, and I, I, I should have been stronger, I should have—”  
  
“Tony, _stop_ ,” Steve said, firmly, and this time he put some command into it.  Tony flinched, his coffee sloshing so badly in his hand that it nearly spilled over the edge of the cup, and he steadied it clumsily, rapidly.  Tony gave a gulping swallow.  
  
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.  “That’s what I mean, though,” he said, voice scratchy.  “It didn’t feel like—like something from outside of me at first.  As far as I knew at the time, that _was_ me, and then—after you went and got the other me, the teen me, from that other timeline, and I fought him, it started feeling less like me, like it was something coming from the outside, and then Kang was gone, and I just felt so . . . empty.  But I remember being the teenager, too.”  He gave a little laugh.  “It was so . . . intimidating, but I was too reckless and impulsive and full of myself to be too scared, and you all expected something of me.  I didn’t want to let you down, you’re Captain America.”  He gave Steve an almost shy, half-wry look from under his eyelashes.  “But then I was fighting myself, my older self,” he sighed.  “And—and I was scared, so scared.  It hurt so much, and then I was dying.”  His hand came up, rubbed at his chest.  
  
“But you were so brave,” Steve said.  “You fought with us to the end, too.  You were there with us against Onslaught.  You’ve always been brave, Tony.  You even gave us the design for the chestplate, to save your younger self, before you died.”  
  
“Well, I’m being a coward now,” Tony said, with a little half-laugh, choking and bitter, and what could Steve say to that?  “I can’t—can’t face going back.”  He scrubbed his hand across his face again.  “So that’s where reading the reports comes in,” Tony said after a moment.  “That’s how I know that after I killed the three of them, and God, Jan, I attacked Jan, too, I’m so, so sorry for that, God, and then I holed up in my secret hideout, and you got the younger me and went after me, and we fought.  And I hurt . . . teenage me, and eventually you figured out it was Kang, and I don't know, I woke up, or whatever it was, and I had my head together enough, finally, to figure out that I could stop what he was doing, even though it would kill me.  So I did that.  I remember that.  And I remember being that kid, God, what a mess, and I remember Onslaught, and then we all woke up in that other world, didn’t we?  I know I did.  I remember you.”  
  
“It’s fuzzy,” Steve said.  “But yeah.  That’s how it was for me, too.”  
  
“And then we came back here,” Tony said, “and it was like I remembered three different lives at once.”  He swallowed hard, convulsively.  “I—maybe I didn’t take it very well,” he said, vaguely.  
  
“I’m not sure there’s any way to take, uh, take that well,” Steve said, and even to himself he sounded awkward.  He just—he felt like he’d waded in deeper than he’d meant to, and now he was in over his head.  He didn’t want to lose his temper—his ma had always lectured him about his temper, and he knew it wouldn’t help, knew it would hurt Tony, spook him, and he was trying so hard not to be—impatient, or angry at all, but Tony wasn’t reacting well at all to Steve saying it wasn’t Tony’s fault.    
  
But it _wasn’t_ , and Steve didn’t know what else to say.  He didn’t know what he should do, what the hell he should say.  There had to be a right answer here, he knew, something he could say that would _help_ , and maybe if he was quicker or cleverer or more sophisticated, better with words and emotions, maybe if he understood Tony better, he could have seen it, but as it was he was left feeling dumb and mute and helpless.  “Tony,” he tried.  “I understand if you’re—you’re having some trouble dealing with what happened and need some—some time to come to terms with it.”  Did he, though?  Steve was pretty sure he knew what he’d do if he was struggling with something similar—throw himself into his work ever harder, run himself into the ground trying to fix everything else, more likely than not.  Steve knew he’d probably be throwing himself into the Avengers more than ever before in Tony’s place.  
  
That was okay, though.  He and Tony were different people, and he didn’t have to understand, right?  
  
“But,” he said, “I want you to know that there’s a place for you on the Avengers.  No one’s blaming you the way you’re thinking, not at all.  We just want you back, that’s all.”  
  
He hadn’t meant to pressure Tony, not at all, more to reassure him, but he could tell by the way Tony sucked in his breath that it had been the wrong thing to say.  Again.  “I’m not trustworthy, Steve,” Tony practically growled.  “I don’t know why you insist on not seeing that.”  
  
“I don’t know, maybe it’s that I don’t think Tony Stark is a useless waste of space who doesn't deserve my time?”  Steve asked hotly.  “I think that when you’re hurt, the Avengers should be there for you like you’ve always been there for us?”  
  
“Even if I kill again?” Tony demanded.  “Even if I fall under Kang or anyone else’s control again?  Because how can I be certain I won’t?  How can any of you be certain I won’t?”  
  
“We can’t be,” Steve admitted, “but damn it, Tony, that goes for any of the rest of us, too.  Mind control, brainwashing, they’ve tried it on all of us.  Maybe you think you’re—I don’t know, uniquely susceptible, or something—” he could see Tony flinch, and yeah, that seemed to suggest that that was exactly what Tony thought, God “—but it’s not necessarily so much worse than any of the rest of us being turned against the team.  You’re—you’re being ridiculous.  It wasn’t your _fault_.”  
  
Tony took a deep, shaking breath.  His eyes were fixed on Steve’s face for a moment, and they looked wide, wide and wounded and dark.  “You think I’m wallowing,” he said, and swallowed.  His voice sounded scratchy, rubbed raw and low and rough.  “You think I’m, I’m malingering or something, making up—making up excuses to not go back.  I—here I am baring my heart to you, telling you my—my deepest—everything I’m most afraid of, and you’re not even _listening_ , are you, Rogers?  Just hearing want you want to hear!  Whatever sounds like it makes sense to _you_ , am I right?”  
  
God _damn_ it, Steve thought, feeling his temper rise, his face, his whole head going hot, and then—was that true?  Was that what he was doing?  Just projecting on Tony, trying to convince him of what Steve most wanted to hear him say?  But Tony was overreacting, and it really wasn’t his fault.  But if—if he was traumatized, if he did have the battle fatigue from that, like Steve had thought earlier, would telling him that over and over even help at all?  
  
 Steve felt helpless, so helpless, and he hated that.  He hated it so much; he knew he never took it well.  He took a deep breath, felt it shake, clenched his hands into fists and then made them flatten out again, rubbed them along his jeans.  “I don’t think you’re making up excuses,” he said, and his voice came out thick and hoarse itself.  “I think you really do feel that way.  That you’ve convinced yourself that it’s true.”  
  
“But that I’m delusional, is that right?” Tony demanded bitterly.  
  
“I don’t _think_ that,” Steve said, and he was trying not to snap at Tony, he really was, but it was hard.  “Stop putting words in my mouth.”  
  
“Well, what, then?” Tony asked him, getting to his feet and stalking over to put his coffee on the desk, brace both hands on the back of the chair.  “What do you think, Steve?  Tell me.”  
  
Steve blew out a long, heavy, frustrated breath as he got to his own feet.  “I think you’ve been traumatized by this, yeah,” he said after a moment of thinking, propping his hands on his hips.  “I think it would be hard not to be, for anyone.  That doesn't mean you’re especially weak or especially unstable or anything else you want me to be saying.  But I think this does tie in with something you already find easy to believe.”  Because Tony had never seemed to think as well of himself as Steve thought of him, had he?  He’d always been so eager to destroy himself, to treat himself as less than worthless.  Steve didn’t pretend to understand it.  “Never let it be said that Tony Stark doesn't know his own flaws, am I right?  So yeah, I think you’re taking it hard, and maybe not being totally reasonable.  But that doesn't mean I think it’s delusional, Tony, Jesus.”  
  
“Why are you even pretending to care?” Tony bit out, spinning around to turn on Steve.  “Why don’t you just give up on me like you did before?  You already know I’m a fuck-up; what’s the point of sticking around?”  
  
“I never gave up on you, Tony,” Steve said, taking a step forward.  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Tony practically flung the words at his face, and Steve stopped, froze, nearly fell over where he stood.  “You did a damn good impression of it when you turned your back and walked out in that flophouse.  Do you even know how damn near that came to breaking me?  God.  When you walked out again—in that diner—” he swallowed hard, his throat working, and his eyes looked big and lost.  
  
Steve’s throat hurt.  His chest hurt.  “I’m sorry, Tony,” he said.  “I—told you, I came here to apologize.”  His voice was far too loud, and he saw Tony flinch again.  
  
“What if I don’t want your apology?” Tony said, his throat still working painfully.  “What if I—what if I just want you to go?  Just go, give up on me like you did before, you know I deserve it.”  
  
Steve felt his jaw firm.  “I’m not going to leave when you’re saying things like that,” he said.  “No way, no how, Shellhead.”  He took a deep breath, trying not to dwell on the pain, the guilt, of what he’d done to Tony in the past.  “And I—I never gave up on you.  I always hoped you’d—you’d come through it, even after I left you in that flophouse.  I know that I—I did the wrong thing, there.  I’m trying to make up for that now.  I am.  I made a mistake when I walked out on you back there, and when I did it earlier today in the diner, too, and the—the least I can do is try not to compound my mistakes any more than I have already.  Because I never did give up on you, Tony.  I swear.”  
  
Tony dropped his eyes.  “You should,” he muttered.  “Everyone else does.  I don’t see why you’d want to stick around.  It’s not like I’ve magically become a better person.”  
  
_You don’t need to be a better person_ , Steve thought, painfully.  _You’re wonderful just how you are.  You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.  You’re my friend._   Even when Tony was driving him crazy.  “Maybe you’re just more my type than you were theirs,” he tried to joke, but Tony winced, bit his bottom lip and looked down.  
  
“Yeah, I doubt that,” he muttered.  
  
“Who says?” Steve put in.  “Tony—it’s not inevitable that people will leave you when you’re down.”  
  
“What the hell would you know?” Tony snarled.  “You’re an expert at doing it.  I’ll just let you down again, and you’ll walk out all over again.”  
  
That hurt so much.  It hurt worse because Steve knew he really hadn’t given Tony any cause to believe differently of him.  When he spoke again his voice was hoarse and rough and far too loud.  “I’m trying to do better,” he burst out.  “I’m trying not to hurt you again.”  
  
“Oh, sure,” Tony said.  “Why bother?  I don’t deserve that, Steve.  I really don’t.”  
  
“Why?” Steve almost shouted.  “Because you decided, and you know everything about everything?”  He flinched at the loudness of his own voice.  He saw Tony flinch back visibly, practically cower, and felt sick to his stomach.  “Stop telling me how I should feel,” he finished, tightly controlling his volume that time, forcing his voice to go even.  
  
“I think I know myself, at least,” Tony said, wry and weary and sad, exhausted, “even if you don’t think I know anything else.”  
  
“Goddamnit, Tony, I didn’t say that,” Steve said.  “I just don’t think it’s fair to yourself to decide you’re ruined for anything else ever again.  For Iron Man, for whatever.  You won’t even be yourself right now.”  
  
“I think that’s my business,” Tony said.  
  
“I’m trying to do better,” Steve said, and he could feel his voice break.  “I’m trying to help you.”  
  
Tony’s face looked so sad.  “I’m not worth all this effort, Steve,” he said in a low, low voice.  
  
When Steve swallowed, it hurt.  “I don’t agree with that,” he said, and swallowed painfully.  “I’ve always admired you,” he said.  “Maybe—maybe it’s harder to see why from the outside—”  
  
Tony gave a harsh little laugh.  “I can’t even see why you’re bothering with me at all,” he said roughly.  
  
“Well, I am,” Steve said.  “I am, and I’m not going anywhere, not yet, not until I’m sure you’re all right.”  
  
“What if I said I don’t want you here?” Tony asked hoarsely.  “What if I said I don’t care and don’t want to see you?”  
  
“I still—I have to be sure you’re all right,” Steve said, and he felt his eyes stinging.  “Jesus, Tony, I thought you were _dead_.”  
  
“I know,” Tony said, hoarsely.  He rubbed at his forehead with one hand, at one eye.  “That was unfair of me.  I’m so sorry.  I just—I just—I didn’t—I didn’t know—if—” he gulped, swallowing.  
  
If I’d even care? Steve wondered.  If I’d want to know?  “You should have,” he said.  “God, Tony, did you even trust me enough to know?  Do you?”  
  
Tony gasped like he’d been shot, been stabbed.  “Trust you,” he gasped, the sound hoarse and broken in his throat, choking as if in shock.  “T-trust you, _Steve_ , of course I—I trust you, that, that, that wasn’t it,” and it was as if Steve was watching him crumble, watching him fall apart in real time, as a broken sob wrenched out from between his lips.  He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, tears trickling down his cheeks.  
  
Steve was there in another moment, and pulled him close into his chest, pushed his head into his shoulder, holding him there.  Tony felt warm, almost feverish against him.  “Okay, okay,” Steve said softly, felt it rumble in his chest, curling his hand in against Tony’s hair.  Tony felt so hot.  “It wasn’t about trust.  I’m sorry.”  
  
“D-don’t apologize,” Tony stammered, his voice broken and harsh, rough and low against Steve’s shoulder.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve said anyway, curling his fingers in against Tony’s hair; he couldn’t help it, “it’s just that—that it bothered me, when I felt like you didn’t trust me.”  
  
“If it was about trust, there’s no one I’d have told before you,” Tony got out, croaking and harsh.  “God, Steve, I’m sorry, I just—”  
  
“No, shh,” Steve said.  “Cry if you need to.  I think you probably really need to.”  
  
“I—I don’t deserve to,” Tony gasped out.  He pushed away, pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, his mouth, firmed his lips into a harsh line.  “It’s not about me; I’m the one who hurt people, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t make it about me.”  
  
“That’s a load of crap,” Steve said.  “ _Kang_ made it about you when he used you.  You were hurt, too.  Hell, if you don’t let it out sometime you’ll explode.  We don’t want that.”  He tried a smile, reached up to rub his fingers, his knuckles, against Tony’s cheek.  “I promise I wouldn’t hold it against you,” he said.  “If it bothers you, I promise I won’t tell another living soul so long as I live.”  
  
Tony sobbed, pressed his fist against his mouth and bent forward over it like over a wound.  
  
“Hey, hey,” Steve said.  “Shh, I’ve gotcha.”  He wrapped both arms around Tony and pulled him close, letting his mouth rest in his tangled hair that was a little bit in need of a wash.  Tony gave another strangled, wracking sob, and then he just went limp and still against Steve, resting his face on his shoulder, shivering but not crying.  Steve just held him, for a long, long moment before Tony started crying again, shaking soundlessly, tears soaking his shoulder.  
  
It took a long time before he went still again, and the tears seemed to taper off.  They just stood there, afterwards, for a while.  Tony felt limp against him, like his legs were weak.  His body was shaking.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tony croaked after a long, long moment.  His voice was a wreck, a raw, tattered ruin of itself.  “Y-y-you didn’t come here to have me c-crying into your shoulder.  G-God.”  
  
“If it’s what you need, I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what I came here for,” Steve said, but he pulled back, used his fist to tilt Tony’s chin up, smiled at him encouragingly when he looked away, looking uncertain, self-conscious, red, swollen eyes flitting to one side nervously.  “Hey,” he said.  
  
Tony’s eyes came flickering back.  He looked dazed, a little hazy, his swollen eyes blank.  “Hey,” he said.  His face was so wet.  Steve rubbed at it with his thumb, uncertain, not sure if he got to touch or not, but Tony didn’t flinch back or away.  He just sort of swayed on his feet.  
  
“Anything you need,” Steve said.  “I promise.  Like I said, I’m here for you to make use of.”  
  
“I,” Tony said, bit his lip.  He coughed a little into one hand, rubbed his hand over his mouth, his beard.  Eventually he smiled, just a little, crooked and unsteady.  “Seems—seems like you’re hell-bent on, on being _my_ knight in shining armor,” he said, a little shakily.  
  
“It’d be a nice change,” Steve said, seriously.  “I meant it when I said I’m trying to do better.  You’ve saved my rear enough times, God knows.”  
  
Tony reached up, took Steve’s wrist gently in his hand, held onto it for a moment before he tugged it down.  “What if I don’t need one?” he asked, hoarse and soft.  
  
“Then I’m just here to be your friend,” Steve said, and shrugged.  “Whatever you want, Tony,” he said, almost painfully.  “I meant it.”  
  
Tony let out a harsh, shuddering breath, covered his eyes with both hands.  “God,” he said.  He swayed on his feet.  
  
Steve curled his hand around Tony’s shoulder, hoping that would be all right, squeezed enough that Tony would know he was there to steady him.  “I know it’s still early, and you just had coffee,” he said.  “But maybe you should—should just head to bed, fella.  You look pretty dead on your feet.”  
  
Tony looked toward the bed, and there was a flash of wistful, guilty desire in his eyes, like a man who wanted to rest but didn’t feel he deserved to.  His face fell—God, he looked so miserable.  “I don’t know,” he said doubtfully.  
  
“You won’t be able to work at all tomorrow if you don’t get some rest, take it easy on yourself now,” Steve pointed out.  Tony looked so tired.  His eyes were bruised and swollen in his pale face.  “Here,” he said, and headed for the sink, found one of the tea towels Tony had lying around that looked as if it had never been used and wet it with cold water.  He draped it gently over Tony’s eyes, then, and Tony groaned.  Steve slid a hand around the back of his neck, massaged at the taut, tight muscles there. It wouldn’t have surprised him at all if Tony had a raging headache, he felt so tense.  “If I know you, you’ll be up and at it again early in the morning tomorrow,” Steve said.  “So why don’t you get some rest now?”  
  
“Steve,” Tony said, but when he swiped at his eyes and brought the towel down, he was smiling, fragile and small.  
  
“You need sleep,” Steve tried.  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, and caught a yawn with the back of his hand and the towel.  “I-I’m not saying you’re wrong.”  He hesitated, though, looking uncertain.  “I,” he said, and then smiled hesitantly, looking at Steve sideways and from under his eyelashes.  “I missed you, too,” he said.  “I don’t know if I said it.  I did, didn’t I?  Did I?  Well, if I didn’t, I should have.  I’m sorry, I—I’ve been so all over the place but—but I wanted you to know that.”  His voice had dropped to almost a whisper.  “You deserve to know that.”  
  
“Thanks,” Steve said, and it came out far too hoarse and low for him to ever pretend it hadn’t meant something to him.  His eyes stung.  “It’s not the same without you, Shellhead.”  
  
Tony’s smile was crooked.  “Yeah,” he said, then his eyes flickered away, breaking the intense moment of eye contact.  “I feel like a total idiot,” he mumbled.  “I don’t even know what I was crying about, really.”  
  
Steve massaged the back of his neck a little more insistently.  “Nothing wrong with a few tears,” he said.  “You’ve been holding that back for a long time, huh?”  
  
Tony gave a hitching little gasp, bit his bottom lip.  “I’m sorry,” he said again.  
  
“Hey, hey.  It’s all right,” Steve said.  “Why shouldn’t you cry over the people who died, anyway?”  Why shouldn’t Tony cry over himself, for that matter?  “You’ve barely been able to think about anything at all since it happened, you’ve hardly had time.  And I meant it, Tony.  I don’t think any less of you.”  He gave him a brief squeeze around his shoulders.  
  
Tony stared at him, looking uncertain.  
  
“I mean it,” Steve said.  “I’ll never think less of you for that.”  Why he would think less of Tony for having a soft heart, for taking things hard, for feeling so damn much, he’d never understand.  He _liked_ Tony’s sincerity.  He wished he felt less need to hide it all the time. “Besides, you’re goddamn exhausted.  Go get some rest.”  He took the wet towel from Tony, then pulled his stained tank up over his head—God, he was thin, underweight, if still leanly muscled, and that was all Steve _was_ thinking about the sight of Tony’s bare chest, of course it was (he had hair all over his chest when he’d always seen it bare and smooth before, so he must usually shave it off)—and pushed him toward the bed.  Tony actually let him, let Steve get him tucked into the clean but clearly aging bed, pull the covers up over him and press the cool towel to his eyes again.  
  
He was clearly asleep in only a few moments, the towel limp over his eyes. Steve left it there to soothe his no doubt sore eyes a bit, and finished up the rest of the Oreos and crackers, drank the coffee in both mugs, and then took them over to wash the few dishes they’d used.  
  
He wasn’t sure where any of that left them.  Tony had said he had missed him, and they’d talked, at least.  Tony hadn’t seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of him—but he was so run down, so barely there, barely with it—God, he’d been about to drink.  Steve wasn’t sure if it meant anything, any of it, or if Tony was just desperate and exhausted, too exhausted to think straight, to even figure out if he wanted Steve around or not.  
  
Steve was sure of one thing, though—he couldn’t leave now, not unless Tony was determined and insistent that he go.  After what Tony had said about him walking out on him before—he just couldn’t.  And Tony needed him, he was sure of that, maybe not Steve in particular, but he needed _someone_ , someone to talk to, someone around who really knew him, so he wasn’t so alone, and Steve was the one on offer, Steve was the one who had run into him.  Tony had ended up keeping both Rhodes and Ms. Potts at arm’s length by entrusting them with this secret, so that they couldn’t really be seen with him without giving it away.  But Steve wasn’t going to let him pull the same sort of thing with him.  
  
It was clear Tony had been pushing people away, but it also hadn’t seemed to him like Tony had really wanted to be alone.  He could have been a lot more insistent about Steve leaving, but instead every time he brought it up it had been more like he didn’t want Steve to leave but had to push, had to be sure he wouldn’t.  And Steve figured he deserved that, though it was a guilty, painful thought.  Tony had been skittish, and he’d seemed—he’d seemed so damned tormented, scared.  Steve couldn’t blame him for that, as much as, well, as he wished that Tony could trust him more easily not to judge him.  Not to turn his back and walk out on him.  
  
He needed to help him this time.  Leave him—leave him better than when he’d found him.  Do it _right_.  
  
So the last thing he wanted to do was to leave now.  If Tony woke up and Steve was gone, who knew if he’d assume that Steve was coming back or if he’d just assume that Steve had gotten fed up with him and walked out all over again.  He was hungry, and he didn’t have his toothbrush, but oh well.  He could live with it for one night.  
  
Once he was done washing up, Steve returned to Tony’s side, folded up the damp towel and wiped his face with it, just a little, then sat there with it in his hand for a moment, looking at Tony.  An urge to stroke his tangled hair overcame Steve’s good sense, and he let his fingers sink into the tousled curls, soft even despite their needing a bit of a wash.  Tony’s face was softer in sleep, his mouth slightly open, but his face still looked tight and drawn, like even then he didn’t entirely put down his burdens, couldn’t escape the weight of it all even then.  
  
Steve sighed, patted Tony on the shoulder, and got back up to put the wet towel on the counter.  He just really hoped Tony could actually get some rest, that was all.  He braced his hands on the counter and took a deep breath.  
  
The other problem was that, well, there wasn’t anything for Steve to do.  The apartment was a cluttered mess, sure, but Steve didn’t want to move anything to clean up, because knowing Tony, he knew where everything was like this and if Steve moved it he wouldn’t be able to find anything anymore.  Besides, it felt like an invasion of his privacy.  But he didn’t want to do anything that might wake Tony up, or interrupt his sleep.  Finally, Steve picked up the book resting on the desk, because it looked like a novel.  
  
It was a novel, a sci-fi one, it looked like, _Flow Your Tears, The Policeman Said_ , but Steve only gave it a cursory look, because underneath it was an Avengers identicard.  Tony’s Avengers identicard.  It had to be his.  
  
Steve was surprised how hard the sight of it hit him, right in the gut, like a punch.  He hadn’t realized Tony even had it, even though he’d messaged it, him, what felt like a hundred times.  Tony had known, then, about his desperate attempts to contact him, every time the Avengers had suited up and gone out since they’d been back.  Steve had alerted Tony, specifically, every time, and maybe that had been a little pathetic, a little needy, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself.  
  
Steve wasn’t even sure how that made him feel, but it hit him like a body blow.  He swallowed hard, and staggered back over to the sofa to sit down, the book still in his hand.  
  
God.  Of course, Steve had known Tony had known.  He’d mentioned watching the Avengers on the news, after all.  But somehow it . . . hurt, knowing that Tony had seen those alerts and ignored them specifically.  It hurt all out of proportion to what made sense.  
  
Steve supposed that he’d just always believed that if he really needed him, if he called Tony, he would come.  
  
But then, maybe he would have.  Steve really had no real way of knowing that.  After all, their situation had never been desperate, except during the incident with Morgan le Fay, and by the time that had started, Tony would have had no real way to get in contact with them anyway.  
  
But that was exactly it.  What if one of their missions had turned more serious?  Would Tony ever even have known?  
  
God knew if that had happened Tony would probably have beaten the living daylights out of himself about that, too.  For not being there.  
  
Somehow that ironic thought broke through the hurt, and made it fade, not completely, but to the back of his mind, like clouds before the sun.  If that had happened, Tony would have felt worse about it than anyone; Steve knew that.  And he’d probably been torturing himself with the Avengers card, too, knowing him, watching the alerts and blaming himself.  
  
Steve sighed and idly opened the book, a little curious about what it was Tony had been reading.  
  
The book was extremely disturbing.  It was about a rich, high profile man who woke up one day to find that his entire identity had been erased and, officially, he no longer existed.  Steve supposed it made sense that it might resonate with Tony just then, but it struck him that the man in the book was a pretty awful person, and what was worse than that was the book’s portrayal of a possible future, or alternate version, Steve wasn’t quite sure, of the United States as some kind of twisted racist totalitarian state.  Steve eventually put it down, disturbed and unsettled, feeling his gut twisting, more upset than he’d expected by the content, and figured he’d just sleep on the couch.  He pulled one of the sofa pillows down under his head and got ready to get to sleep.  
  
At least, he reflected, Tony had slept all afternoon so far, and it had been a little unsettled, Tony muttering or moaning under his breath, flinching in his sleep or whimpering a little, but not too bad, nothing that had lasted longer than a few seconds at a time, and Steve hadn’t wanted to wake him.  He took comfort from that, that Tony had slept safe for a good few hours with him in the room, even if he woke up again later, as he punched the pillow again to get it to lay flat and closed his eyes to get to sleep.  
  
He wasn’t sure at first what had woken him, what had to be hours later.  The room was dark, with hardly any light coming in through the broken blinds from outside.  He came awake with a start, wild-eyed, adrenaline pounding through him and already reaching for his shield before he realized that he wasn’t under attack, and neither was Tony.  
  
Tony.  Steve’s head swung around as he focused on him, in bed.  Tony had cried out, he realized in another instant.  That was what had awoken him.  He was on his feet in another moment, scrambling up, as Tony screamed again, gave a shaking, sobbing cry that tore at Steve’s heart.  It was more than half a sob and sounded as if someone was dying, or someone’s heart was breaking.  Or both, Steve thought, distracted and frantic, as he stumbled across the unfamiliar room toward Tony’s bed.  
  
He saw it when Tony woke up, even though he hadn’t quite reached him yet.  Tony gasped, jolted, shuddered and obviously came awake, though he just moaned low in his throat and rolled over to press his face into the pillow, shaking, for a long moment.  Then he was sitting up, struggling with the blankets to get out of bed, and lurched to his feet, almost running smack into Steve in the process.  Steve reached out automatically, steadied Tony at his shoulders, and Tony flinched, stumbled, his eyes going wide.  “Steve?” he gasped questioningly.  
  
“That’s me,” Steve said.  
  
Tony looked at him with desperate confusion, then just gave a hoarse, wracking gasp and pushed past him, out of his hands, to rush into the bathroom.  Steve could hear it as he vomited a moment later, the retching sound.  Disgusting as it was, Steve followed him immediately.  Tony was on his knees in front of the toilet, his head down on the bowl.  Steve didn’t say anything, just flipped on the light, then got down on his knees beside him and put a hand on Tony’s back.  
  
Tony shuddered under the touch, looking up at Steve with wide, startled eyes.  “What are you doing here?” he asked hoarsely.  “I—I thought . . . I mean, you’re staying somewhere . . . ?”  
  
“I wanted to stay,” Steve said simply.  “I hope that was all right.”  
  
Tony blinked.  He was still shivering.  “I . . . okay,” he said vaguely.  “Whatever you want, Steve.” It didn’t sound sarcastic, at least.  He groaned, let his head sag forward.  In another moment he was vomiting again.  
  
Steve rubbed his back, put a hand on his shoulder and steadied him, until Tony groaned and rubbed his mouth, flushed the toilet, and Steve squeezed his shoulder and got up, headed back into the kitchen long enough to fill up a glass of water and wet a towel again.  He stepped into the bathroom again to find Tony still sitting on the floor, looking dazed and awful, his eyes far away and glazed in his pale face, all too startling against his dark lashes and the bruised looking skin around them.  “Hey,” he said, “here.”  He handed Tony the glass.  “Wash out your mouth,” he said, and Tony took a swallow, swished it around his mouth, and spit it in the toilet a few times without a question.  “Then drink the rest,” Steve said, and Tony obeyed.  Steve knelt again, wiped his face gently with the wet cloth, curled it around the back of his neck and wiped up cold sweat, rubbing there softly, down over the front of his neck, his throat and his chest.  “How about I run you a bath, huh?” he asked.  
  
Tony looked at him as if he had lost his mind.  “I,” he said.  “I—Steve, you don’t have to—”  
  
“Shush,” Steve said, and tried a slight smile.  “I want to, all right?”  
  
Tony looked at him with an indecipherable look on his face for a moment, then said, “All right,” roughly.  “Thanks, I—that’d be nice.”  
  
“Okay, good,” Steve said, trying to keep it gentle, and rubbed a hand through Tony’s hair, tousling it, before he got up and stepped behind him to start the bathwater running.  He got it pretty warm, because he knew Tony always liked it hot; Tony had mentioned it enough times, and there were always those hot springs on alien worlds and on Asgard that had come up a few times.  Tony and he had gone to Japan, once, too, stayed in a hot spring resort there while Tony was on business, and Tony had laughed when Steve turned bright red from the heat of the water.  It had been oddly intimate, just the two of them in an open-air bath with the night sky above them, and Steve’s head had been swimming from the heat, from Tony’s presence—that vivid force of his charisma again, just the two of them.  Steve had ended up feeling so lightheaded, and Tony had ended up supporting him with his arm and shoulder when they’d gotten out of the bath and he’d stumbled, and his skin had been so warm, so hot from the bath and himself.  Steve could remember that so vividly—Tony’s wet eyelashes and beard, the curve of his smile, the way his skin had felt against Steve’s.  Tony had smiled at him and Steve had felt so damn special to get that kind of smile from Tony, and then Tony had been talking again, and Steve was back on his own feet.  
  
The thought was a bittersweet one, but not as much as it would have been a few weeks ago, before he’d known that Tony was actually alive.  
  
“So,” Steve said after a moment of watching the bath fill up.  “Nightmares?”  
  
There was a moment of silence before Tony’s answer, hoarse and low, “Yeah.”  
  
“Had those a lot lately?” Steve asked.  “I haven’t been sleeping too well myself.”  Though he hadn’t had any nightmares that night, not that he remembered, anyway, before Tony had woken him up, he realized.  
  
“I guess so,” Tony said softly, and then, “Yeah.  A lot.”  Steve looked back to see him scrub a hand over his face, and he spoke again with a rough, wry little laugh.  “Every night, to be honest.”  
  
“About what happened?” Steve asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said softly.  
  
It was understandable, really.  “Yeah,” Steve said.  “It’s all right.”  He turned back to Tony, helped him to his feet, trying not to dwell on the feeling of his skin, clammy and a little damp, under his fingers, as he rested a hand on Tony’s back, held his shoulders, as Tony stripped down and stepped into the water.  Tony gave a little hiss, a soft sigh, as soon as his shins hit the water.  “Good temp?” Steve asked.  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, softly.  He gave him a crooked, almost hesitant little smile.  “Thank you, Steve.  This is really—I mean—”  He made a rueful face, looked away, down at the side of the tub, the water “—thanks.”  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, and rubbed his shoulder with one hand, the back of his neck.  “It’s my pleasure.”  
  
He left Tony to it, then, figured he needed to rest, to relax, and that he’d better leave him to it, to wind down.  He seemed to be in there a while, though, and after a bit, concerned, Steve propped the door to the bathroom open and checked inside, only to see Tony with one arm draped over the side and his head drooping forward, fast asleep and snoring.  
  
Steve was glad he’d been able to get back to sleep, but a little worried he’d done so in the bath, considering.  Rather than wake him, he stepped into the bathroom as quietly as he could to kneel beside the bathtub.  Tony didn’t wake.  His mouth had sagged open softly, his head drooping forward almost to his chest, and his hair was curling damply over his forehead in the steam.  Steve reached up, let his fingers curve in against those soft curls as he pushed them back, lingering over Tony’s forehead.  
  
He should wash his hair, he thought, and bit his lip.  Was that too much?  But it would be nice for Tony, to have clean hair, wouldn’t it?  
  
Steve decided he’d do it all at once.  He reached for the bottle of shampoo on the edge of the bath and squirted some of it into his hand to fill the room with the scent of artificial lime and dryer sheets, cupping water in the other to pour over Tony’s hair until it was good and wet.  He was honestly relieved when Tony didn’t wake up at that—he wanted to do this for him without bothering him, so that he could rest.  To do that, Steve kept his movements slow and careful as he rubbed the shampoo gently into Tony’s hair, then used the shower attachment to rinse it out.  That done, he scrubbed over Tony’s neck and chest with the soap and rinsed him clean, but felt like anything else would be too much, too intimate, so he just lifted him out of the water, not caring how wet he got himself, and grabbed one of the nearby towels to towel him dry.  He’d seen Tony naked before, plenty of times before, so he didn’t let himself dwell on that and instead just concentrated on getting him dry, especially his hair, supporting his neck with one hand while he did it.  
  
When Tony was dry to his satisfaction, he pulled him more firmly into his arms, feeling the damp warmth of him, of his skin, the way Tony’s head lolled softly on his shoulder, warmed Steve’s neck with his quiet breathing, and carried him back to his bed, careful in the darkness of the unfamiliar room.  Tony still didn’t wake; he was fast asleep, totally out.  That was something good, at least.  Steve tousled his hair softly one last time and laid him naked in his bed, covering him with the blankets and tucking him in softly.  
  
At least, Steve thought sadly, Tony looked peaceful for the moment.  No telling how long that would last, but at least he’d done that much for him.  For now.  
  
He sighed and went to clean up the bathroom a little.


	4. It's a Barnum and Bailey World

Tony woke up gradually, feeling strange, a little groggy.  He realized that he was naked under his blankets, and he felt clean.  His hair was a mess of curls around his face that he could feel even without opening his eyes, and his body had the soft, crisp feel he associated with having showered, even if his stomach muscles felt a little sore.  Again.  He groaned as he opened his eyes, not quite wanting to because waking up would force him to leave the soft, warm place where he was floating, and he actually felt _good_ for a change and knew that wouldn’t last once he was fully awake.  He’d had a dream, a dream about Steve—  
  
A second later he was awake, completely awake, in an instant, because that hadn’t been a dream about Steve, had it?  No, Steve had really been there, and Tony, God, Tony had—had made an ass of himself, had made Steve take care of him, had—been disgusting, throwing up, out of it, what had he been thinking.  Steve had drawn him a bath and—and what had happened after that?  Tony couldn’t remember, which was horribly like the feeling the next morning after going to bed blackout drunk.  He hated it.  He hoped Steve would forgive him, wouldn’t be totally disgusted by him now.  He—  
  
Did he smell coffee?  Tony opened his eyes, pushed himself up on one arm.  It felt surreal, even more surreal as he took in what he was seeing.  It just didn’t seem possible that Steve Rogers of all people would be there standing in front of Tony’s pathetic little stove, apparently cooking.  Steve, of all people, and cooking breakfast?  Tony felt his head spinning.  “Steve,” he said blankly, and his voice came out all croaky and rough.  It occurred to him, belatedly, that he was naked under the blankets, and he felt very, very conscious of that, all of a sudden, even more so as Steve turned around and looked at him.  
  
And smiled at him, actually, and Tony felt all of a sudden very undeserving of that sweet, warm, if a little hesitant, smile on Steve’s face.  It felt . . . surreal, almost wrong, that it would be directed at him, of all people.  He swallowed, hard, and felt it catch painfully in his throat.  Which was, of course, raw, from throwing up again last night, right, so that was totally what it was.  
  
“Good morning,” Steve said, his smile turning a little bit more hesitant, more sheepish.  “I hope you don’t mind me making some breakfast.  I went out and got some food, since, uh, well, we did establish your cupboards were a little bare.”  
  
“Uh,” Tony said.  Of course it was fine; the last thing he wanted was Steve going hungry, stoically starving himself in some kind of idiotic penance just to keep Tony company.  He rubbed at his forehead, still disoriented by the way his persistent headache seemed to have disappeared overnight.  “It’s fine.”  He tried a smile.  “We already established I’m not exactly equipped to feed a super soldier.”  
  
“Wonderful,” Steve said, with a bright beaming smile suddenly that seemed all out of proportion to what Tony had said.  “That’s perfect, then.  I’m making some bacon and eggs, but they’re not quite done yet.  I got you a bagel with cream cheese, though, from that little bakery down the street?  You still like everything bagels, don’t you?”  
  
Tony did, in fact, like everything bagels.  “Um,” he said, sounding lame and stupid even to his own ears.  “Thanks.  I—I mean,” because Steve was really going above and beyond here, and after everything that had happened between them, too, “thank you, Steve.”  
  
“Aw, it was no trouble,” Steve said.  “You know me, I always want a big breakfast.”  He turned back to the stove, or, more accurately, the single burner, and Tony seized his chance to get out of bed and into a pair of boxer-briefs and an undershirt as fast as he could.  His work clothes followed a little more slowly, and then he ducked into the bathroom.  
  
Steve was still cooking busily away when he stepped out again, and the smell of food, of bread and coffee and bacon, almost left Tony dizzy.  Steve took him by one shoulder and had him sit at the table, dragging one chair over, and then put a big mug of coffee on the table in front of him and dragged a paper bag over to rest beside it.  
  
“Thank you,” Tony stuttered again, but Steve just smiled at him, which didn’t leave him any _less_ flustered.  
  
“You go ahead and eat,” Steve said.  “I won’t bother you.  I know how you are before your coffee.”  
  
Tony felt himself go a little hot, self-consciously, but luckily Steve didn’t seem to notice.  And, well, he wasn’t wrong, either; it wasn’t like Tony could exactly deny it.  
  
The coffee was perfect, rich and creamy and bitter and sweet, and the bagel was still warm, and with the softened cream cheese that had come in a little container with it spread over it, it was perfect.  Tony didn’t usually feel hungry in the morning at all, but suddenly it was easy to polish off the bagel, and when Steve set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, he started into it without even thinking, realizing belatedly that his stomach had been growling.  Steve sat down across from him and started on his own plate and cup of coffee, digging in with the singular focus he’d always had for food, ever since Tony had first met him.  Back when.  Back then, Tony had shared a few breakfasts with him, a lot like this, usually when he’d been up working or caught up in an idea and hadn’t gone to bed yet, running into Steve back from his morning run or workout in the kitchen.  But back then, Steve hadn’t known he was Iron Man, and he’d just been rich, distant Tony Stark, Avengers benefactor, to him, Tony was sure.  
  
So they’d been about as awkward as he felt now, actually.  
  
Steve ate two plates and finished up just as Tony was finishing his first, idly pushing around a stray piece of egg with his fork.  He set it down and took a sip of his coffee, then swallowed, hard.  “Listen, Steve,” he said after a moment.  “I’m, uh.  I’m sorry about last night.”  
  
“Aw, hell, Tony, don’t be,” Steve said immediately, and God, you forgot the sheer power of his earnestness when he wasn’t right there with you.  “We’ve all had nightmares, a hundred times.”  He smiled a little at Tony, not quite hesitantly.  “I seem to remember you comforting me in the mansion at some point.  You’d sit in the library with me, night after night, talking with me when I couldn’t sleep.”  
  
That . . . was true.  Of course Tony had done that for Steve—it had been the least he could do—but it wasn’t the same thing at all.  Steve hadn’t been on his knees vomiting into the toilet, he hadn’t been an alcoholic and a murderer who had let down the team too many times to count.  Steve hadn’t _cried_ on him, God (though there had been tears in his eyes a few times, and Tony remembered just wanting to put his arms around him and hold him while he cried it out.  But that was still different.). Tony took a long, unsteady swallow.  “It’s not the same,” he mumbled finally, though he knew that wouldn’t convince Steve of much.  “You’re going way beyond the call here, Steve.  All I ever had to do was sit with you.”  Steve hadn’t let him do much more than that; he’d been so wary, as if he was afraid Tony would think less of him, would judge him, for letting himself be emotional and weak.  Tony felt himself flush at the thought, look hesitantly up at Steve.  If Steve felt that way about himself—what must he think of Tony now—but if Steve remembered that fondly—he didn’t know what to think.  He swallowed.  
  
“You never just sat with me,” Steve said, softly, and there was a depth of emotion, of roughness, in his voice.  “You talked to me, you—you didn’t judge me.  You were there for me.  I was such a mess, and you didn’t—you didn’t think I was weak; you never thought less of me.  I was so afraid you would, if you realized I—that I—if you realized about the battle fatigue, and my nerves.  I felt so—stupid and messed up, when I woke up shaking, or saw things, or just felt . . . felt like I did, hopeless and alone.  You never made me feel less than anyone for that, and—and I’d never expected that.  Before, I’d always thought that if I told a, a fella like you, who hadn’t been given everything he was, you’d think I was a real . . .” he swallowed hard “. . . fake, like you’d know that I wasn’t up to it, didn’t deserve all this, if you ever found out.”  He just vaguely at himself, at his body, looking down and not meeting Tony’s eyes, but in the next moment his eyes were up, pale blue blazing and pure and sincere meeting Tony’s from across the table.  “You helped me realize that—” he swallowed again, smooth strong throat working “—that I didn’t have to feel that way.  I don’t know if I ever told you how much that meant to me.  What you did for me, just by listening, and—and being so compassionate and understanding in a way I never thought a fella would be to me.  I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”  
  
Tony stared at him, his throat aching, fingers frozen clenched up tight around the handle of his coffee cup.  He’d—he’d never realized Steve had felt that way.  If he had, God, he would have—would have done so much more, to show Steve how he had nothing to be ashamed of, to show him how—how valuable he was, how of course he had deserved the serum, God, there was no one better, could be no one better, no one could ever have deserved it more, he—he gulped so hard it hurt.  “I—I didn’t do much,” he stammered.  “I did what anyone would have done.  But—God—Steve—you’re welcome, of course you’re welcome.  Any time.  It was.  It was the least I could do.”  
  
“But you were the one who did it,” Steve said, with a sweet, wistful smile that Tony couldn’t entirely read.  He leaned over, pressed Tony’s hand for a moment, before he got up and refilled Tony’s coffee cup without being asked, set it down in front of him, then stood there for a moment with his hand on the back of Tony’s chair.  Tony could feel the warmth of his body bleeding into him from his hand so close to his shoulder, from where he stood behind the chair.  “Is it such a big surprise I’d like to pay you back?” Steve asked.  “I haven’t done the best job of it in the past and—I’m sorry for that.  I’m not as good at listening, or—or being patient as you—” God, since when was Tony patient?  Steve had such a bizarrely flattering view of him “—but I’m here now, and I swear I’ll try.  I’ll do better this time, Tony.”  
  
Tony swallowed hard.  “You don’t have to do anything, Steve,” he said, then twisted around to look at him.  “You don’t have to make anything up to me,” he said, trying not to let on that his stupid goddamn eyes were stinging again, or that there was a lump in the back of his throat.  His eyes still hurt from crying yesterday.  He was such a goddamned disgrace.  “I didn’t do anything anyone else wouldn’t have done for you.”  Steve was so good, so strong in spite of, no, _because_ _of_ his vulnerabilities, so strong and so good; how could anyone not see that?  Tony wasn’t special or—or valuable for being kind to Steve.  “If you’re saying that because of—because of what I said yesterday . . . I was just—I was being a bitter asshole yesterday, and I was trying to hurt you.  Don’t take it personally.  I get like that.  You did absolutely nothing wrong.  Everything you said to me was right.”  He swallowed hard, again, felt that heave of nausea, the pulse of vertigo.  “Just like you said, a man has to want to be helped.  I just wasn’t ready to hear it.  My—my weakness isn’t your fault.  Never has been.”  
  
Steve sighed.  His shoulders slumped.  “I’ll never understand,” he said, and his eyes looked sad, “how you can be so kind to me, but so hard on yourself.”  
  
Tony swallowed again.  His throat hurt.  What was what supposed to mean?  “I just don’t want you blaming yourself for this,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders despite himself as he turned back to his coffee, took a swallow.  “It’s not your fault.  None—none of this is your fault.”  
  
“All right,” Steve said, and put a hand on Tony’s shoulder, squeezed.  Tony noticed that they weren’t talking about how close he’d come to drinking the day before, about his awful behavior, and swallowed, hard, feeling an acid, corrosive wash of shame flood over him.  God, he’d been—he’d been so weak.  If Steve hadn’t been there—he felt like throwing up again, hid his face in one hand.  God.  He’d spiraled down so low, after Steve had stalked out of the diner—practically all he could remember was the hot throbbing pulse of self-hatred, the black waves lashing at him, how he felt like he might as well give in, sink as low as he felt.  He felt sick, and slid his hand in his pocket, but his sobriety chip wasn’t there.  Because he’d left it on the—the desk.  Did he even still deserve it?  He’d been about to take that drink, after all.  Tony rubbed the heel of his hand hard against his eye.  
  
He needed to go to a meeting, but he couldn’t, not without revealing who he was, could he?  Eddie Chaney didn’t have a sponsor.  Tony wasn’t thinking straight.  He—he swallowed hard.  
  
Steve’s hand firmed on his shoulder.  It felt so warm, so—steadying, anchoring him back down to earth.  “It’s all right, Tony,” he said.  “Don’t take it so hard.  I’m not going to hold anything that happened yesterday against you.  You don’t have to feel guilty or—or broken up over it.  It’s all right.  You had a bad day, all right, but you didn’t do anything wrong.”  
  
“The hell I didn’t,” Tony muttered.  “I bought a bottle of cheap whiskey and almost sat here and drank it.  If you’d been an hour later you might have come in to find me dead sloppy drunk.”  They could have re-enacted that sordid little scene in that years-ago flophouse all over again.  Jesus, he’d have put Steve through that all over again.  He was—he was such a disgrace.  What did Steve fucking see in him?  Why was he even there?  
  
“But you didn’t, Tony,” Steve said.  “There’s nothing I could have done one way or another to stop you aside from knocking the bottle out of your hand, and I didn’t do that.  That was all you.”  He moved his hand off Tony’s shoulder, and he felt a moment of mourning at the loss of that warmth, then crossed the room, picked up the chip, and came back, pressed it into Tony’s fist.  “You kept yourself from falling back into that bottle, Tony,” Steve said.  His voice was so earnest.  
  
Tony curled his fist tight around the chip, felt the edges of it biting into his palm.  Maybe that was—that was at least partly true, but it was Steve showing up that had snapped him out of it, he knew it.  He owed Steve a hell of a lot.  More than he’d ever be able to repay.  He bent his head, pressed his fist against his forehead, hearing his breath coming raspy, quick.  Steve squeezed his shoulder again, rubbed his back, up and down over his spine.  
  
Steve was too good to him.  He didn’t deserve it.  His hand on Tony’s back made him feel so warm.  Tony found himself shivering under it.  
  
“Thank you,” he finally managed, and his voice sounded breathless, thready.  “I—you’re too generous.”  
  
“Tony,” Steve sighed, but he just ruffled his hair, gently, drew his hand away.  The affection was almost too much, almost enough to undo Tony all over again.  
  
“So what next?” he asked after a moment, when he was sure he had control over his voice again.  He slipped the chip into his pocket, then flattened his hand on the table, took a deep breath, shot a glance at Steve over his shoulder as he carried his plate over to the sink.  “What’s the plan, here, Cap?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Steve said, dryly.  “I don’t have a plan, though it seems like you did.  Do.  So why don’t you tell me?”  
  
Tony’s plan didn’t involve Steve showing up, knowing who he was, or holding him while he cried his eyes out, needless to say.  He looked at him blankly.  “My plan was to avoid anyone who might know my identity, let Rhodey and Pepper continue to administer my estate, and work on the Restoration Project until this whole area gets back on its feet,” he said.  “How do you see yourself fitting into that?”  
  
Steve shrugged.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “You’d know better than I would if I’d be of any help to you, with that or anything else you’re working on.”  
  
That—wasn’t really what Tony had meant.  And he was being an asshole again.  He sighed and wrapped his hands around his coffee cup.  He kept feeling like he should be driving Steve away, or trying to.  After all, what was there for Steve with him, in him?  He wasn’t going to find anything he was looking for.  Tony wasn’t even sure what Steve was looking for—peace of mind, maybe?—but he was sure he couldn’t give it to him.  
  
But maybe that was just a cowardly impulse.  Self-protective.  Maybe Steve needed to see what a wreck he really was for himself, judge him, so he could walk away again in peace.  Maybe that was what Steve needed.  And who was Tony to stand in the way of that?  
  
Or maybe he wasn’t thinking straight.  Maybe Steve had been right, the day before—Tony had an idea that maybe he hadn’t been thinking straight for a long time.  He sighed, ran his hands back through his hair.  He felt so much better, since those eggs and that bagel.  He felt stupid for how much better he actually felt.  
  
And it was so embarrassing, what a wreck he’d been the night before.  “Did you . . . put me to bed?” he asked hesitantly.  “Did I fall asleep in the bath?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said with a smile and a shrug.  “I was glad to see you getting some rest.”  
  
Tony cringed internally.  Jesus.  Could he have been any more embarrassing?  He’d hit pretty much every mark—nearly drank, cried all over Steve, thrown up in front of him while he was a shaking, terrified wreck from nightmares, made Steve pick him up out of the bath _naked_.  How was he ever going to live that down?  “Um, well, thank you,” he said.  “Look, I—if you want to stick around, you can, but my life hasn’t been all that interesting the last couple of months.”  He didn’t think he’d have been able to handle it if it was; he was barely functioning, barely holding it together, as it was.  He rubbed one hand across his eyes.  “And I have to get to work.  So—so maybe we can talk about this later?”  
  
“Would you mind if . . . if I kept coming over here?” Steve asked, not quite hesitantly.  “I’d like to see you.”  
  
Sure, God knew why that would be.  See Tony make even more of a fool of himself, more like.  
  
“Do you have anywhere to stay?” Tony asked.  Maybe that was why he wanted to stay over.  
  
Steve blushed, a little.  “Yeah, I have a room at the Motel Six down the road,” he said.  “But I’d still like to come by and see you sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, relieved that Steve had at least gotten himself a place to stay for the night.  “I guess.  If that’s what you want.”  He got to his feet.  “Look,” he said.  “If you’re here to convince me to go back and be Iron Man again—” he didn’t know how he planned to finish that sentence.  Maybe just with a ‘just don’t.’  
  
Steve’s face settled into grave lines, and he looked down at his hands on the table.  “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said.  “I did hope that—that if I found you, it would mean Iron Man coming back to the team.  I’ve been hoping for that ever since all of us got back.  But—but if you’re not ready for that, you’re not ready for that.  I don’t intend to push you.  You—you can take your time, Tony.  I just want to help.  That’s all I want.  I know I—didn’t do so great at that the last time I showed up out of the blue to help you when you were feeling low, but I swear I’m going to do better this time.”  
  
“Take my time,” Tony said bitterly.  It was just—the presumption that he’d go back to being Tony Stark, to being Iron Man, eventually.  “What if I decide I like being dead?  What if I ask Rhodey to take up being Iron Man again?”  
  
Steve gave a long, heavy sigh.  He looked, suddenly, tired.  “Then that’s your choice,” he said.  “And I’ll—I’ll respect it.  It’s all I can do.  But—Tony—I don’t know if—if denying who you are is ever going to be the answer.”  
  
“That’s your prerogative,” Tony said, unable to keep the nasty tone out of his voice.  “Everyone’s allowed an opinion.  I’ll see you later, Steve.  Have fun hanging out.”  And he grabbed his autoshop hat, jammed it on top of his head, and headed down to the garage, grabbing his keys off his desk and tossing them to Steve on the way out.  
  
Of course, the thing of it was, the job he had at work that morning was fixing Steve’s bike.  And with Steve not there to rub along his sore spots and make him—make him ache and hurt and long for things he couldn’t have and couldn’t make himself believe he could reach for anymore, an aching, wistful sort of affection came welling up out of him and he found himself stroking the bike gently, crooning to it in the soft voice he hadn’t let himself use with Steve.  After a few minutes of work, he sighed, and just leaned forward, rested his forehead against the chassis of the bike, and took a deep breath, smoothing over it with one hand.  
  
Steve.  Steve was here.  He’d come to find him.  He’d—he’d actually looked for Tony long enough and hard enough that he’d stumbled on him by accident.  It was—it was so—he almost couldn’t believe it.  How had that happened?  He’d never dreamed—just—how?  Why had Steve looked for him at all?  
  
Okay, Steve was a good friend of—of Iron Man’s, always had been.  He was sure Steve had missed him, had missed fighting alongside him.  But.  But considering everything, how could he still want that?  How could he still miss him?  
  
It had been like a repulsor bolt straight to Tony’s heart, just to see him again.  He was as beautiful as ever, all strong jaw and noble brow and face set in stubborn lines, tall and strong like a knight in a storybook, and when he’d walked in and Tony had seen him he’d felt a lot like he was going to pass out.  
  
He still—remembered the way Steve had cradled him as he died, the feel of his arms around him, holding him, the feel of Steve’s gloved hand warm on his teen self’s shoulder as he told him he believed in him, that he knew he could do it (Cap, his _hero_ , telling him he could do it, Tony had felt warm down to his toes, tall with it, like he could fly all on his own).  He—he hadn’t even realized how much he missed him until he saw him again.  Hadn’t let himself think about it, really, because he hadn’t let himself think that Steve’s company was a thing he’d have ever again.  
  
Clearly he hadn’t been factoring Steve himself into that equation.  God.  He felt dizzy.  And there was that part of him—full of his stupid secret dreams, the part of him he’d never let run the show or do the talking, that just wanted to—to fall into his arms, like some kind of idiot heroine in a romantic movie, not like the walking wreck of a man on the brink of a mental breakdown he actually was, and not the way he’d fallen into Steve’s arms just to sob on him like a total basket case.  
  
Which was ridiculous.  After this—after all the times Steve had seen him at his lowest, it was crazy to think that Steve might still be attracted to him, if he ever could have been in the first place, friendship aside.  He had to stop mooning over him and get back to work.  Especially considering the fucking jackass move walking out on him the way he had that morning had been.  After Steve had gone out of his way to get him breakfast and everything.  After everything Steve had done for him.  
  
Tony told himself that, very firmly, but he couldn’t stop himself from murmuring softly to the bike, caressing it gently as he worked on it, the way he’d never be able to let himself with Steve.

* * *

  
  
Steve was relieved to see that when Tony came back, later that day, to change his clothes to head over to the Restoration Project, he seemed to be in a better mood.  His face softened into warm, open lines when he saw Steve, and when he saw that there were two deli sandwiches on the table, he looked down, smiled a little, and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Aw, Steve, you shouldn’t have,” he said.  
  
“I wanted to make sure you had time for lunch,” Steve said, looking down himself and feeling his ears heat, “since, well, yesterday didn’t go so well, yeah?”  
  
“You shouldn't have,” Tony said, but he came over and squeezed Steve’s shoulder, just for a moment, before he sat down at the table with a sigh and dropped his work hat on the table.  It was still so strange to see him dressed like a mechanic, in his worn coveralls and grease stains.  “Good news,” he said, running his hand back through his hair, leaving the curls very tousled and falling into his eyes.  “There isn’t too much wrong with your bike.  I replaced the main part that was giving you some trouble.  I’ll give it another once over, make sure she’s running tip-top, but you should be ready to go by tomorrow or the day after.”  
  
“Hey, Tony, thanks,” Steve said.  It was nice to know he’d be mobile if any trouble came up, or if he was called back to the Avengers.  “I really appreciate it.”  
  
“Don’t appreciate it too much,” Tony said wryly.  “Carl’s still going to charge you.  Explaining it to him would probably lead to a lot of awkward questions.  I—I hope that’s okay?”  He looked incredibly anxious about that, suddenly, as if he thought Steve would mind, as if Steve would expect him to potentially compromise his own identity just to save Steve a few bucks.  
  
“It’s no problem,” Steve said.  Tony’s foundation paid his salary; he could pay Tony’s employer for a change.  “I’ll consider it a community donation.”  
  
Tony smiled at him, really smiled, and it left him breathless, left him feeling like the room was ten degrees warmer and fifteen shades brighter.  He hadn’t seen Tony really smile, not like _that_ , so that his cheek dimpled and his lashes flicked down over his eyes and the skin around them crinkled up—well, since a while before he’d died, to tell the truth.  “You are the greatest, Steve,” he said, with a level of sincerity that made Steve go hot and know he was blushing, and then leaned forward and took his sandwich into his hands.  “Mmm, pastrami,” he said.  “You really do know me way too well.”  He took a bite, and Steve smiled to himself, just pleased to see him eating with such apparent gusto.  It was a nice change from the day before.  He got up, poured Tony and himself a cup of coffee from the pot he’d been making, poured milk into Tony’s and his own and added sugar to Tony’s, then came back and pushed the cup across the table to Tony.  
  
Tony took it, gesturing in thanks, his eyes speaking gratitude, and Steve hid a smile in his own coffee cup as he started on his own sandwich (he’d gotten himself a meatball sub).  That was nice.  This was—this was a lot better than the day before.  He let himself dare to hope that things might actually get better with Tony, and even if he couldn’t convince him to want to go back to being Tony Stark, that at least they might end up on a decent footing.  He wasn’t sure what that would mean, or where that would leave them, but, well—it would be something.  
  
In some ways, that was all he was letting himself dare to hope for, at the moment.  He didn’t want to get ahead of himself again, put the cart before the horse, or make Tony feel like he was just there to pressure him into—into doing something he didn’t want.  He didn’t want to represent pressure and responsibilities and censure and disapproval and all the things Tony wasn’t ready to deal with yet in Tony’s life.  He wanted to be his friend, someone he trusted enough to come to with his problems, like Tony had always been for Steve.  
  
And this—eating lunch with him—seemed like it might be a decent start.  
  
“You are,” Tony said, when he finished the sandwich and wiped his mouth, taking a long drink of his coffee, “the best, most generous superhero out there, Steve.  Gotta be.  Thank you for lunch.  So much.  I’m sorry I have to run.”  
  
“That’s all right,” Steve said, finishing up his own sandwich.  “I know you’ve got stuff to do.  I don’t want to interrupt.”  He thought about asking if he could come along, get a look at the Restoration Project, but he also didn’t want to push things after yesterday.  “Is it all right if I just stay here a while?”  
  
“Don’t know why you want to,” Tony said, a little more wariness in his eyes despite the breezy tone of his voice, “but sure thing, tiger.”  He pushed back from the table.  “Sorry, I’d better get changed and get out of here.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Steve said, and made himself smile widely up at Tony.  “I’m good.”  
  
“Okay,” Tony said, with a brief flash of a smile that seemed more uncertain, tighter than it had earlier, and disappeared into the bathroom with his clothes.  
  
When he reappeared, a moment later, Steve had to swallow, hard.  Even with the scruffy beard and overly long hair, in office clothes Tony looked—well, he looked like Tony Stark, was the thing, even if it was just a polo shirt and a blazer, and neither of them fit as well or looked as flashy as Tony’s usual business clothes.  But it showed off his trim build that the coveralls obscured, and he just—he even carried himself differently than he had as the mechanic Steve had seen up until that point.  “I’ll see you later,” Tony said, a little awkwardly.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, smiling at him determinedly, despite the way the sight of him was tightening his throat, making it hard to breathe.  “Sure thing.”  
  
“Right,” Tony said, and gave a sheepish little laugh, ran a hand through his hair and checked his watch, visibly hesitating, and then he was out the door a moment later.  He hadn’t even asked for his keys back.  
  
That day it was easier to wait for Tony to come back.  Since Steve had his keys, he locked the place up, then went back and changed into some running clothes and took a quick run through the town.  It was a relief to express some of the physical energy he had pent up after spending hours reading and watching Tony sleep—he’d finished the book that morning, having nothing better to do with his time, and wanting to do something, nervous and not sure what sort of mood Tony would be in when he came back.  The book hadn’t been any less unsettling in the end than it had been at the beginning, but at least Tony had been more, well, friendly, when he got back.  He felt . . . lucky, really, that Tony had been so much more open when he returned than he had been when he’d left.  He hadn’t known what to expect at all.  
  
Well, he still didn’t really know what to expect from Tony, he guessed, but he was feeling a lot more hopeful now about it in general.  
  
He took a detour to his own hotel room, both to take a quick shower and grab some of his things, then took them back over to Tony’s place.  But then he was there in Tony’s room again, and again didn’t have much to do with himself.  
  
He found himself moving the door back and forth, noticing how it squeaked and wobbled, and frowned.  
  
By the time Tony came back later that evening, Steve had rehung the door, tightened the knobs on the cabinets, and was working on fixing the drip in the sink.  He’d gotten the tools from the garage downstairs, and figured he might as well put his time to use.  He didn’t have Tony’s knack for fixing things, but it was clear that Tony wasn’t going to do it, and Steve wasn’t entirely useless as a handyman.  He was actually feeling pretty proud of his work about the time Tony came in through the door and then stopped, closing it behind him.  
  
“Steve?” he called, a little bit hesitantly, Steve thought.  
  
“In here,” he called back, twisting the tap on and then off again, pleased when it didn’t drip at all.  He wiped his hands on his trousers, gathered up the tools, and then stepped through the bathroom door.  
  
Tony blinked at him.  “Um,” he said, then flushed a little, looked down.  “Hi?”  
  
“Hi,” Steve said back.  “I fixed the tap.  And I tightened the knobs on the cabinets.  And the door, I did that too.”  
  
Tony twisted back and stared at it.  “I thought it felt different,” he muttered, then said, louder, swallowing hard, “Steve, you—you didn’t have to do that.  I—”  
  
“I know I didn’t,” Steve said.  “I had time on my hands, and I wanted to.  So I did, that’s all.  How are you?  How was work?”  He set the tools down on the table.  
  
“It, um,” Tony said.  “It.  It was fine.”  He was staring at Steve as if he’d turned green, and then he rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly, and looked away.  “I was wondering if you maybe wanted to order Chinese?” he said.  “That or pizza; those are pretty much our only options.  And I thought maybe you’d go for Chinese.  Let me be the one to, uh, handle the food for a change.”  
  
“Sure,” Steve said.  “Sounds great.  But I can pay my share.”  He dug his hand in his pocket for his wallet.  
  
“No, no,” Tony said, sounding embarrassed.  “Let me, Steve, please.”  
  
“You’re not a billionaire right now,” Steve said.  “You made that pretty clear.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Tony said.  “But I am your friend, huh?  Friends treat each other to dinner.  Don’t they?”  
  
“Okay,” Steve said, and couldn’t help his smile at that, even though, yeah, of course he and Tony were friends.  It was—it was just good to hear it, that was all.  He’d always wondered a little if Tony just treated him all the time because Tony was rich and Tony was kind, and hadn’t let himself ever read more into it.  It made him feel flushed and warm to think that Tony had maybe just meant it out of friendship all along, still wanted to do it even now, money or no money.  “Yeah, they do.  Your treat.”  
  
The way Tony smiled at him would have been worth anything.  Steve ended up looking over Tony’s shoulder as he unfolded a takeout menu he’d stuffed in his pocket, and, like most menus from Chinese places Steve had seen since he’d been unfrozen, it seemed to go on for about a million years.  Tony settled on Szechuan beef pretty quick, but he kept encouraging Steve to order more—crab Rangoon and egg drop soup and General Tso’s chicken and sweet and sour pork and chicken chow mein and egg rolls, until finally Steve elbowed him and told him that was gonna be enough, and he really didn’t need to go that far.  At all.  Tony just rolled his eyes at him and picked up his old decrepit phone to call it in, curling his fingers idly in the cord as he ordered.  
  
“It’s too much money,” Steve said, with a bit of a laugh, when he hung up, setting the phone messily back down into the cradle, before he frowned and straightened it again.  
  
“Pull the other one, Steve,” Tony said, but he was smiling again.  “I know you’ll eat that much and have room to spare, you can’t fool me.”  
  
“All right,” Steve allowed—he did get hungry—“but you’d better share it with me, that’s all I’m saying.”  
  
“If you insist,” Tony said, but his eyes were lighter than they had been.  He actually looked happy, the lines on his face relaxing for a change, so that he looked his age, not about six years older, like a weight, or a shadow, had disappeared from his face.  Steve treasured that look, because—because maybe it meant he was actually helping him in some way.  Or at least that he wasn’t hurting.  
  
“I read your book,” Steve said, after a moment.  
  
“Huh?” Tony said.  “My book?”  
  
“The one by Mr. Dick,” Steve said.  “With the racist future that’s actually in the past.  About that Jason Taverner fella?”  
  
“Huh,” Tony said, again.  “What did you think of it?”  
  
“It was disturbing,” Steve said.  “It made me think.  It was . . . paranoid.”  
  
“Ha,” Tony said.  “You could say that.”  
  
“Did you—what do you think of it?” Steve asked.  
  
“It reminds me of myself,” Tony said.  “I’ve read it before.  I saw it in the store and thought . . . well, why not?”  He sighed.  “I mean, nothing else was helping produce clarity, right?”  
  
Steve thought that might be what he’d say.  “You’re a way nicer guy than anyone in it,” he said, and at least that made Tony laugh.  
  
“Thanks, Steve,” he said, but his eyes were warm and soft.  “You’re pretty swell yourself.”  
  
“Don’t tease,” Steve said, and it came out very quiet, soft and low.  “I haven’t talked like I’m from the 40s for a long time now.  Unless it’s on purpose.”  
  
“I don’t do it to tease,” Tony said, and his voice was scratchy, and oddly gently.  Steve found himself smiling back.  
  
“Sure, you don’t,” he said.  “You with your smart mouth.”  
  
“Well, I’m kinda fond of you, Steve, you see,” Tony said, smiling back, still awfully softly, and he didn’t look away from Steve’s eyes for a long moment.  Steve’s cheeks felt hot, and his throat oddly thick, his breathing uneven, when he looked away.  
  
“I’d better go and pick up the food,” he said, and Steve immediately stood, too.  
  
“I’ll go with you,” he said.  “You’ll need help to carry all of that.”  
  
And, as a matter of fact, Tony did need his help.  It was a companionable walk there and back, though, and Tony was laughing a little as they tried to juggle all the different containers on their way back to Tony’s little apartment.  Tony took them up the back stairs, this time, and held the door open for Steve to duck through before they finally made it back to the room and could set it all down on the table.  
  
“Well,” Tony said, then, smiling a little awkwardly.  It was a sweet smile, though, warm and real on his face, even if he looked nervous.  Steve wished he could tell him that he didn’t have to feel nervous around him, but he knew that wouldn’t be the right move, and even if it would have helped, he wasn’t even sure if it was true.  He didn’t know what Tony was afraid of.  “Dig in, I guess.”  
  
“Just try and stop me,” Steve said, because he had a feeling it would make Tony smile wider, more genuinely, and he was right.  That had him feeling good even before he opened the first box of food.  
  
He wasn’t sure if it was because the Chinese place was really pretty good, or if it was the company, but he hadn’t had Chinese takeout that tasted that good in a long, long time.  “So,” he said, as Tony set yet another piece of sweet and sour pork on top of Steve’s rice with his chopsticks, and he felt himself blushing slightly, “how has it been, working at Carl’s shop?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Tony said, warily, like he thought Steve was setting him up somehow.  
  
“Did you meet anyone interesting?” Steve asked.  “What’s your favorite car you’ve fixed up?”  
  
“Your bike, of course,” Tony said, with a soft laugh, but Steve had an idea maybe he wasn’t kidding.  
  
“I said car,” he reminded him.  
  
“Well,” Tony said.  “Hmm.  There was this one.  It was the wildest thing I’ve ever seen, Steve, like—the Frankenstein’s monster of cars, let me tell you.”  And he was off talking about the car, which really did sound like some piece of work.  Steve was just happy to listen, to watch him talk, see him gesturing with his hands (he only did that when he was really passionate about something!), to hear what Tony had found interesting, and about what.  He seized his chance to sneak a few more pieces of pork onto Tony’s plate, and was gratified when Tony ate them without even seeming to realize.  
  
It was after they’d finished and cleared up, and eaten their fortune cookies (“A faithful friend is a strong defense,” for Tony, “a pleasant surprise is waiting for you,” for Steve, which he thought was a little behind the eight ball, to tell the truth, considering the pleasant surprise he’d gotten when he’d stumbled across Tony, here), that Tony asked him about what he’d been up to lately, then stumbled over it, and said, “Um, other than, uh, Avengers business, I mean, of course.”  
  
“Well,” Steve said, with a smile.  “Mostly riding my bike and looking for you.  Doing some work for Fury on the side.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony said, and swallowed, hard.  “I’m, uh, I’m sorry.  For the trouble.”  
  
“It wasn’t much trouble, to tell the truth,” Steve said.  “Easy as falling off a log, considering I just ran into you out here, huh?”  The universe had smiled on him for once, that was for sure.  “Honestly, it wasn’t bad at all.  I did a lot of sketches.”  
  
“Really?” Tony asked, and then bit his lip.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said.  “I’ve got to keep my hand in somehow.  What if I wanted to get another job, right?”  He intended that as a little bit of a self-deprecating joke at his own expense, considering how well his career as a commercial artist had gone, really.  
  
Tony was still chewing on his bottom lip.  “I, um,” he said softly.  “Um, could I see?  I mean, would you mind sharing them?  If it’s too personal I totally understand, I just—you know what, sorry, I don’t mean to be—to be invasive, I—”  
  
Steve felt warm, all through, a low-level glow like an ember lighting up in his chest.  “Yeah, sure, of course,” he said.  “I’m flattered you want to see them.  Here, just let me get my sketchbook.”  He got it out of his bag, then pushed their plates and empty boxes of takeout over to the side of the table, before he sat down again.  Tony pulled his chair in close, so eagerly Steve almost couldn’t believe someone could actually be so excited to see his little old sketches, especially someone like Tony Stark.  So close to Steve he could feel the warm of his thigh, the fabric of his pants just brushing Steve’s.  It was Steve’s turn to bite his lip, to feel a little self-conscious, but he hadn’t gotten anywhere by being afraid to show his work to anyone, so he flipped the sketchbook open.  
  
He felt a little silly, showing Tony a sketch of one of the Maria Stark Foundation buildings he knew Tony had bought, paid for, and partially designed, first off.  He’d forgotten that one—he’d sketched it, bracing the sketchpad on his bike’s handlebars as he sat there in the parking lot, because Tony had designed it, because he’d just—wanted to feel that little bit closer to him.  It had been a piece of Tony he could carry with him.  
  
Tony gave him a surprised little glance, but then turned back to the sketch.  “Your perspective is so good,” he said, admiringly.  
  
“It’s kind of important when you draw action scenes,” Steve said, a little sheepishly.  
  
“I’ve noticed not all graphic novel artists are so good at it,” Tony said, and Steve had to laugh.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” he said, and moved onto the next sketch.  
  
They were a few sketches on when they got to the one Steve had done based on the painting of Tony’s mother that hung in the atrium of the Maria Stark Foundation buildings, and Tony said, very softly, “Oh.”  Steve looked at him worriedly, immediately afraid he’d offended him by sketching something so personal, but instead his eyes were bright, really, really bright, and his hand trembled, just a little, like he wanted to reach out and touch it—his fingers hovered just over the paper, before he put them down.  He leaned into Steve, a soft warm pressure against his side, like his body knew it wanted comfort Tony himself would never ask for, and before Steve knew what he was doing, his hand was over Tony’s knee, squeezing gently against the warmth of him through his pants.  
  
Tony shivered, down to his toes.  
  
“Oh, Steve,” he said, and his voice came out scratchy.  “It’s even better than the portrait.  How did you do that?”  
  
Mostly he’d thought about Tony, Steve thought in embarrassment.  Tony’s eyes.  Tony’s smile.  But he’d also thought about the things Tony had said about his mother.  “I thought about how you’d talk about her,” he said.  “Maybe that helped.”  
  
It was only when they’d moved onto the next sketch that Steve realized he was resting his hand on Tony’s knee, really _thought_ about it, and quickly took his hand away to turn the pages.  But Tony just leaned into him a little more.  
  
It was the best night Steve could remember having in a long time, and he didn’t even mind leaving to head back to his lonely hotel room, afterwards.  He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled, because Tony had asked him if he’d come back over the next day for lunch, and he’d let him keep his keys.  
  
They had leftover Chinese for lunch the next day, and then Tony asked, hesitantly, if Steve wanted to meet his coworkers at the Restoration Project.  “You’ve already met Carl, anyway,” he said, with a smile that Steve thought looked a little hesitant and a lot brave.  “But I thought maybe—I could introduce you around?  You could use any alias you want to, of course.  I mean—”  
  
“Yes,” Steve said.  “I’ve love to.”  
  
He went with Steve Wilson, and figured Sam wouldn’t mind.  Tony co-workers at the Restoration Project were really swell folks, too—bright and motivated and full of ideas, and so friendly, welcoming him easily to the office.  Tony introduced one of them as his friend Pam, a round blonde woman with curls and bright green eyes, and Steve beamed at her, because he was so glad to think that Tony had had a friend here, all this time.  
  
“I think you just about made Pam pass out today,” Tony said on the way home, and Steve laughed.  
  
“What?” he said.  
  
“The way you smiled at her,” Tony explained.  “The sheer power of your attractiveness.  It’s not meant for us mere mortals.”  
  
“Shut up,” Steve said, laughing, and then, because he was an idiot, “You think I’m attractive?”  
  
Tony made a sound like he was choking.  “Oh, please,” he said.  “You ever look in the mirror?”  
  
“Well, I don’t know,” Steve said, and knew he was blushing, so he tried to play it off with a joke.  “I can’t really remember the last time.  Maybe it was 1945 . . . .”  
  
“God, you goober, you have such a cleanshaven jaw I could use it as a spirit level,” Tony said.  “Pull the other one.”  
  
“Just let me know if you need it,” Steve said, and Tony covered his mouth with his hand as he laughed, almost like he was afraid someone would hear him enjoying himself.  “Seriously,” Steve said.  “I mean it.  Any time.”  
  
“There are so many dirty jokes I could make as a response to that,” Tony said, leaning on the fence of the playground in the park they were walking through.  
  
“What’s stopping you?” Steve asked, and then wondered what the hell had possessed him.  
  
“I want you for your mind, not your body, Rogers,” Tony said, and then snickered.  “When was the last time you swung on a swing?” he asked, apropos of nothing.  
  
“I’d probably break them,” Steve said, eyeing the swing set dubiously.  
  
“Well, my lean and lithe form probably won’t,” Tony said.  “C’mon.”  He hoisted himself up over the fence and started toward the swings, and Steve followed him.  
  
“You mean underweight,” he said, leaning against the support beam of the set while Tony sat on the swing and idly pushed himself back and forth with his feet.  
  
“Maybe so,” Tony said, and was quiet for a moment, then said, more softly, “It didn’t seem to matter for a long time.”  
  
“Eating?” Steve said, and winced, because he could hear how disapproving that had sounded.  
  
Tony didn’t seem to take it too hard, though.  “Yeah, Nurse Rogers,” he said.  “Eating.  What, you going to fatten me up like a suckling pig?”  
  
“I just want to see you taking care of yourself, Tony,” Steve said.  “That’s all.”  
  
“Eddie,” Tony said, with a sigh, and rested his forehead against the chain of the swing.  
  
“Eddie, whatever,” Steve said.  “I want to see you taking care of yourself.  That’s the point.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Tony said, and shrugged.  “I’m not saying you don’t have a point.”  
  
“Thank you,” Steve said, with exaggerated gratitude, and at least Tony laughed a little.  
  
“Sorry,” he said.  “Didn’t mean to get all—pathetic on you.  Bring down the mood.”  
  
“It’s all right,” Steve said.  “I’m here because I want to be with you.  Not because I want you to put on a show.”  
  
“How are you even real?” Tony sighed, and Steve wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but he thought he might have felt a little—well, stung, because he _was_ real, thank you very much, and he just—he wanted Tony to see him as real.  As his real friend.  “You seem too good to be true sometimes,” he ended up, and reached up, found Steve’s hand and squeezed it.  “I probably don’t sound grateful,” he said.  “I’m sorry for that.  I am.  I really am.  It’s just—it’s hard to believe this is happening to me.  I was so—”  
  
_Depressed?_ Steve’s mind suggested.  “Yeah, I sure got lucky to find you,” he said instead.  
  
Tony laughed a little.  “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he said, a little bitterly, and Steve winced.  
  
“I like the auto shop a lot better,” he said.  
  
“Yeah, Carl’s a good guy,” Tony murmured, dropping Steve’s hand.  It immediately felt cold in the air, away from his touch, and Steve curled it around the chain of the swing.  “He sure took a chance on me,” Tony added.  
  
“Lucky Carl,” Steve said.  “I mean, he’s got one of the best theoretical engineers working in the world working for him.  Because he took a chance on a swell fella like you.”  
  
“You’ll give me a big head, stallion, shush,” Tony said lightly.  “Haven’t you ever heard?  I’ve got a big enough ego already.”  
  
“Heard it,” Steve said.  “Still waiting on the proof.  Aren’t you scientists all about proper citations?”  
  
Tony actually laughed at that one, then sighed as he started to twist the chains of the swing together in a circle.  
  
“You’ll give yourself an upset stomach when they untwist,” Steve said, eyeing them dubiously.  
  
“I used to regularly pull 6 Gs, big fella,” Tony told him in that same light tone of voice.  “I think I’ll be okay.”  
  
He had a point there, but the “used to” stung.  
  
“Honestly, Steve,” Tony said, after a moment.  “Why did you—come looking for me?  Why did you spend so much time on it?”  
  
“I told you,” Steve said.  “There’s no big mystery.  I missed you.  I wanted to see you.  It’s not the same without you.”  
  
“Would it be the same with me?” Tony asked.  
  
“Probably not,” Steve admitted.  “But that’s not what I meant and you know it.”  
  
“I guess I do,” Tony sighed.  “How’s the Foundation?”  
  
“Doing fine, so far as I could tell,” Steve said.  “You know, I only headed out here because the Foundation donates to the Restoration Project.”  
  
“Dang,” Tony said.  “That was sloppy, huh?  Hoist on my own petard.”  
  
“Don’t regret your generosity, Tony,” Steve told him, and couldn’t resist reaching down, tousling the already messy dark hair.  “Never regret that.  You’re doing a good thing here, helping these people.”  
  
Tony looked away, bit his lip.  “What did I say about my ego, Steve?” he asked.  
  
“And what did _I_ say about it?” Steve asked.  “I haven’t changed my mind.”  
  
“I didn’t think you had,” Tony mumbled.  
  
Steve put a hand down on his shoulder and squeezed.  “It is a good thing,” he said.  “And they’re good people.”  
  
“They are,” Tony said.  “Yeah, they are.”  
  
That night, Tony dug out a deck of cards, and asked if Steve wanted to play.  He agreed, just glad to have an excuse to stay with Tony longer.  They played a few hands of poker, before Tony put the cards down, and said, after having beaten Steve every time, “I’m sorry, I just can’t stop myself from counting the cards.”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, and sighed, with a little pang that maybe he wasn’t going to get that excuse after all.  “I guess this is probably pretty boring for you.”  
  
“I used to play with different rules,” Tony said, then looked away and muttered, “But you wouldn’t be into that.”  
  
“What different rules?” Steve asked.  “I mean.  Why wouldn’t I be into that?”  He could be into whatever it was, he was sure of it.  
  
Tony gave him a look, then raised his chin, his eyes sparking dangerously in a way that already had Steve wary, “Okay, well, if you want, we could make this more exciting.”  
  
“How’s that?” Steve asked.  
  
“We could play strip poker,” Tony said, and Steve thought, _oh.  That was what he meant by different rules._   Then he thought, _how many people have seen Tony take his shirt off, then, when I wasn’t even there?_   And then he remembered that Tony counted cards and was preternaturally good at poker, and he relaxed.  Probably not that many.  
  
So that would probably mean him taking off his clothes in front of Tony.  Well, he’d stripped down in front of Tony a hundred times if he had once, and maybe this would relax him.  He’d seemed a little jittery, a little on edge, worked up, since their discussion in the playground.  If this would take the edge off, Steve was all for it.  
  
“Okay,” he said.  “You’ve got a deal.”  Besides, he wasn’t some kind of stick in the mud.  They’d played cards for all kinds of outrageous stakes back during the war.  He was there at the Avengers card games all the time.  Tony had _seen_ him there, playing along with Clint’s stupid dares and all the rest of it.  
  
Tony stared at him.  “Are you serious?” he said.  
  
“Perfectly serious, Tony,” Steve said, and held out his hand for the cards.  “Do you want to deal, or should I?”  
  
“Uh, no,” Tony said.  “You deal.  Wouldn’t want to be accused of, uh, stacking the deck in my favor.”  And then he blushed, so dark Steve could actually see it, which, well, hardly ever happened.  
  
“If you don’t want to . . .” Steve started.  
  
“No!” Tony said.  “No, I do.  I just.  Well.  Let’s just get this started, huh?”  
  
“Sure thing, mister,” Steve said, and started to deal.  
  
Tony didn’t actually do as well as Steve had expected.  Sure, the first couple hands he won easy as anything, but when Steve was sitting there bare to his waist, having already dispensed of his shoes and socks, suddenly the luck of the draw seemed to change in his favor.  Tony kept looking up at him, then back down, and Steve suddenly felt incredibly aware of things like the air over his nipples, and how they were slightly pebbled from the cold, the flush that was staining his shoulders and spreading down his chest.  
  
Tony lost the next hand, and Steve suddenly realized that meant he was going to get to watch Tony take his shirt off, since Tony had started out the game in bare feet, and his mouth went dry unexpectedly.  It went even drier when Tony said, “Oh.  Well,” and shrugged, and hesitated just a second before he started to unbutton his shirt.  
  
Steve’s hands shook on his cards.  Tony was wearing an undershirt, sure, but now he could see the dark circles of _his_ nipples, the peaked points where they showed through his undershirt, the still damn impressive muscles of his shoulders and arms.  
  
“Not bad on the definition, Stark,” he said.  
  
“Some of us work for a living, Rogers,” Tony said, still looking at Steve’s chest with an expression he couldn’t decipher.  “Deal, why don’t you?”  
  
Honestly, they both played pretty badly after that.  Steve was down to his skivvies before Tony, though, so it wasn’t like Tony had totally lost his ability to smoke him at cards somewhere.  Just—mostly lost it.  
  
Tony’s bare chest was so beautiful.  Honestly, he was just so—wonderful to look at.  His chest was covered in little whorls of body hair, dark as his hair, so black, black as night as night, black enough for romantic poets to write poems about, and Steve didn’t think he’d ever seen Tony with his chest bare before he’d come here without him having shaved or waxed it or whatever he did until it was smooth.  Something about it made it hard for him to take his eyes off of it, or the little trail of hair that disappeared down under Tony’s trouser waist, especially after Tony took off his belt, leaving his slacks to sag down slightly around his hips.  He had lovely hips, too, even if they were too thin, now, the bones far too prominent.  Steve found himself wanting to slide his fingers along the graceful arch of one bone, cover it with his palm, as if the bones being so close to the skin would leave Tony cold.  It had for him.  
  
Steve realized he wanted Tony to take off more clothes.  A lot more.  He didn’t think it was entirely artistic appreciation.  It had been a long time since he’d looked at a man like he was looking at Tony now.  Tony was—Tony was a beautiful man.  
  
Steve put everything he had into his next hand.  He’d never paid so much attention to a hand of poker in his life.  
  
Tony lost the hand and looked at him for a long, long moment.  He licked his bottom lip, and reached for the button of his slacks.  
  
Then he shuddered, and looked away.  “You know what,” he said.  “I forfeit.  You win fair and square, Steve-o.  Clint’s never going to believe that one.  Even if you tell him.  Which, um, I’m hoping you won’t.  Because in hiding, here.  Yeah.  So.  I think I’m gonna take a shower.”  
  
And he got up and fled in the direction of the bathroom, leaving Steve to wish he could take a cold shower of his own, and also wondering what the hell had just happened, as if a spell had broken when Tony got up and left the room.  
  
“Sorry about that,” Tony said, when he reappeared.  Fully dressed, and Steve had his own clothes on by then.  
  
“Don’t be,” Steve said, and why did there seem to be a second, heavier weight to those words.  “Nothing to be sorry for.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony said.  “I.  Um.  Okay.  Okay, cool.”  He grinned, though it still looked a little shaky.  “I have to admit, that did make the game more challenging.  I guess strip poker is my weakness, Cap.”  
  
“Maybe so,” Steve said, though it wasn’t lost on him that Tony probably could have won more hands than he lost.  If he’d been willing to do it in his underwear.  And get Steve completely naked.  
  
Which Steve would not have been opposed to.  God, why was he thinking about this?  He needed that cold shower, clearly.  
  
“Are you, um,” Tony said, and looked down.  “Are you coming back over tomorrow, hot stuff?”  
  
_Hot stuff_ , Steve’s brain repeated.  _Hot stuff.  He thinks I’m hot?  He thinks I’m hot._   He cleared his throat.  “Count on it,” he said.  
  
Tony’s beaming smile was worth any amount of embarrassment.  Any—anything, practically.  “Okay, cool,” he said.  “See you then, sunshine.”  
  
“See you then,” Steve said, and let himself out.  He couldn’t help but notice that Tony let him keep his keys.  Again.  
  
They spent the next few days together.  Steve bought Tony bagels again, the next morning, and was greeted with a groggy, sleepy-eyed Tony, bedhead and all, so he made him coffee.  It was wonderful, not awkward at all.  Steve guessed he hadn’t had to stay up half the night worrying about it after all.  The next day was even better, as if Tony was finally relaxing in his presence again.  It felt like the old days, just a little, even if Tony had overlong messy hair and a scruffy beard and wore a mechanic’s uniform and reminded Steve to call him Eddie half the time.  But not quite like the old days, either, because Steve hadn’t known who Tony really was then—not back when, hadn’t known he was Iron Man, hadn’t known Iron Man was Tony, and it had never been quite like this before, without the Avengers, without Tony’s company, without anything except them.  It was the same and it was different.  Just like Tony, in some ways.  Still the same person, the same man, but battered, bent into a new shape, maybe just for a while, maybe with a few more cracks, and Steve was still trying to learn the new shape of him, but he was the same man, the same person.  Made out of the same stuff.  
  
Steve was thinking about that as he walked back to his motel room from another night spent with Tony—this time talking about the finer points of Philip K. Dick as a writer.  He just sounded more and more inexplicable to Steve the more Tony told him, but it had been—it had been a good time, talking about it with Tony.  They should do that more, talk about science fiction, and his favorite, fantasy—he remembered an old debate he’d gotten into with Tony over the relative merits of the two genres, back before he’d even known Tony Stark was Iron Man, and then how Iron Man had told him Tony liked fantasy, too, later.  “Can’t get enough of the stuff,” he’d told him.  And sure enough, he’d seen Tony’s copy of the Lord of the Rings in his room, clearly well read, on top of his bookshelf, the next time he’d gone in there to alert Tony to an impromptu meeting with the press.  
  
Tony was such a card.  What had all that been about?  Steve was smiling just thinking about it.  
  
Steve stopped when he saw the lights on in the Restoration Project headquarters.  It was so late—he could believe Tony or one of the others were working late, except that he’d seen them all as they were leaving when he came to pick Tony up earlier, and he could have sworn none of them had stayed behind.  
  
Then they flickered, and went out, and he thought he saw movement.  That wasn’t . . . right.  Was something wrong?  
  
Steve reached for his shield.  He wasn’t wearing his suit, just dressed in street clothes, but he did have his Avengers identicard in his pocket.  He tugged it out and tapped it on, tapped it to Tony’s personal channel and sent him a ping, holding it up to his mouth.  “Tony,” he said.  “Tony, are you there?”  He started toward the building.  
  
There was a sound like Tony fumbling, and then his breathless voice.  For a second, Steve felt a strange thrill, all the way down his spine, that Tony had—had what, picked up?  Hadn’t ignored him?  What had he expected?  “Steve?” he said in a gasp, like he’d rushed, dashed over to pick up in a hurry.  
  
“I think there’s someone in the Restoration Project building,” Steve said.  He was getting close to the building now, and the hairs were rising on the back of his neck.  It was pure instinct, but he was sure something was wrong.  “Is there any reason you can think of someone might be in there at this hour?”  
  
“What?” Tony asked.  “No, I—I locked up when we left.  I’m sure no one was planning on working late . . . .”  Steve could practically hear his mind turning.  
  
He was there at the fence a moment later, and he could see where it had been cut, ran his fingers over the evidence of a laser-cutter.  He reached for his shield.  “Yeah, the fence has been cut,” he said a moment later.  “It’s a break in.”  He reached for the top of the fence and hoisted himself up and over in one easy movement.  A moment later he was breaking into a run.  
  
“But—why would someone be breaking in to the Restoration Project?” Tony asked, sounding blank.  “We’re just helping with new construction in this area, putting money back into local infrastructure—making sure it gets rebuilt better than it was before.  There isn’t anything valuable about plans for a bridge or a new highway, not in the sense of—industrial espionage or anything like that.”  
  
“Have you been building anything for them in particular?” Steve asked, because if there was one thing he knew was valuable, it was Tony Stark’s engineering mind.  He pressed his back against the wall, peered in through one of the windows on the ground floor.  He couldn’t see much, but it looked like someone had been going through the cabinets.  When he glanced up, though, he could see a broken window.  
  
Well, that was a dead giveaway, wasn’t it?  Steve stuck the identicard in his mouth, set his foot on the sill of the first floor window, and grabbed onto the frame to swing himself up.  A few seconds later, and he was hoisting himself up onto the second floor, swinging his legs up and sliding in through the broken window.  
  
“Steve?” Tony said, sounding hesitant, his voice tinny in the room as Steve stepped carefully inside.  “I, uh, a design for a water pump?  A new engine for a crane?”  
  
“Where would the plans for those be kept?” Steve asked, keeping his voice low, low and soft.  
  
“You think someone broke in to steal my design for a _water pump_?” Tony said, voice disbelieving.  “Okay, well—on the hard drive, but there’s backups of everything I’ve done for the project in the cabinets on the second floor, near where I have my desk?”  
  
“Copy that,” Steve said, and thumbed the direct link to off, slipped the identity card back into his pocket.  
  
He didn’t know what he thought, exactly, except that he’d already run into Paladin out looking for Tony, the same way he was, and this felt like a professional job to him—a reckless professional job, sure, smash and grab mercenary style.  Maybe it was a coincidence; after the amount of time he’d been doing this job Steve knew coincidences did happen, but he wasn’t about to assume it was one, either.  He made sure his shield was firm on his arm and edged carefully through the doorway to look into the next room, then the next, careful to check rooms on both sides of the hall.  
  
Sure enough, as he’d almost expected, when he got to the room with the filing cabinets and Tony’s desk, there was a dark figure bent over the desktop computer, tapping away at the keyboard.  “Hey!” he called out.  “Buster!  What do you think you’re doing?”  He got the shield ready to throw.  
  
He could see it a moment later as the intruder (masked, he realized in the same moment), looked up and froze just a moment before they started toward him.  Steve threw the shield.  
  
The dark figure ducked, and a second later there was the sound of cocking, like of a gun.  Steve automatically threw himself forward into a roll, ready to catch the shield on the roll up, but it still surprised him when instead of a bullet or several or a hail of them, a stream of flame emanated from the figure’s arm out over his head.  No—not their arm, a flamethrower or gun of some sort attached to the figure’s arm, but still.  
  
Shit.  Fire.  That—wasn’t good.  He didn’t want anything here to be damaged—the Restoration Project was important to this area, to Tony.  Their work was important, and they were helping people.  Steve caught his shield as he found his feet again and threw himself forward into a full body tackle, right into the figure’s chest.  
  
He discovered immediately that the figure was wearing some kind of powered armor, not like Tony’s, more like a basic exoskeleton, that made them bulkier, square and hard so that the impact smacked hard against the shield, though of course it absorbed most of it.  He managed to bowl the other over, practically down onto their back, though they caught themselves on one knee—okay, so they were strong, or the exoskeleton was absorbing his force.  Steve spun around, slammed the shield hard into that arm the fire had been coming out of.  
  
He saw the punch coming a second before it connected and dropped to one knee, but then barely got his shield up again in time to block more fire.  The figure was running for the door a moment later, and Steve turned on his heel and threw himself after them, bringing them both crashing down to the floor.  The intruder swore—okay, so a man, Steve thought, and managed to get one arm around enough to punch Steve damn hard in the jaw.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re up to, fella?” Steve demanded, and returned the punch.  Wait, no, he should try to calm this situation down, get some information out of him—  “Tell me what you’re up to and we can work this out.”  
  
“Who the hell are you?” the man demanded.  “You punch like a fucking freight train.  Some rent-a-cops they got round here.”  
  
Oh, right.  He wasn’t wearing the uniform.  Hadn’t the shield given it away, though?  What did this fella think he’d thrown at him, a Frisbee?  “I’m the one asking the questions, mister,” Steve said.  “Now, what are you doing here?”  
  
“Forget this,” the man said, “fuck it.”  Steve got the shield up not a moment too soon to block another spray of flame.  He was aware, in the back of his mind, that it had caught, that there was fire spreading around him on the carpet, and got the shield down, rolled over it, doing his best to put it out, before he threw himself into the wall and punched the alarm for the building, then slammed his hand into the fire alarm.  
  
Red lights immediately blared into existence around them, the sound of the alarm harsh and insistent.  The other man swore and turned to run, and Steve was on his heels a moment later. He grabbed him by the shoulder and had to block another burst of flame on the shield.  The next one bowled him over, landed him on his rear on the ground, but Steve kicked off with one foot, grabbed hold of the man’s shin, and they both fell back to the floor with a resounding crash.  The man kicked out a moment later and caught Steve right in the kisser, which left even his ears ringing.  He kept hold of the shin plate of the exoskeleton though, until he had to let go to cover himself with the shield to block another burst of flame.  
  
His head ached, his mouth and cheek stinging, and his ears rang.  That had been a hard hit, and the carpet was definitely on fire now.  Steve had to make a split second decision whether to pursue the man or try to put it out, and ended up lunging forward and hooking his fingers around the side of the armored exoskeleton.  He was surprised when the man seemed to take off in a blast of hot steam that seared painfully over Steve’s thighs, dragging him up off the ground.  Steve realized belatedly that he had something like a jetpack.  Well, crap.  
  
He used his grip on the man’s armor to throw his body up and back into a flip, until his boot snapped back and hit what should be the man’s head.  They both fell to the ground in another crash, and Steve brought the shield up to defend his head as he fell, groaning, then rolled off the man and staggered as he used his shield to break the glass of the emergency box so that he could grab the fire extinguisher, spraying it indiscriminately around the room until he realized the main source of the fire was behind him and sprayed it there.  
  
The man was getting up a moment later, so Steve tossed the extinguisher aside and leapt after him again.  The man hit back and would have caught him in the face again if Steve hadn’t thrown one arm up to block it on his forearm.  He got one leg behind the man’s and hooked it around to trip him, using his body weight to bear him down, twisting his arm out of the block to grab at him and slam him into the wall.  He figured the man had some kind of flamethrowers on his arms, because he wasn’t quick enough with the flame for it to be something organic like a mutant’s pyrokinetic powers.  He reached out, grabbing for the man’s arms, then swore as his bare hand hit hot metal.  He should have seen that coming; that had been stupid.  He had his shield in his hand a moment later and brought it around, managed to hit it against one of the man’s arms and hear something break before the man twisted out of his grip and Steve had to get the shield up and make himself as small as he could behind it to protect himself against another gout of flame.  His hand burned, stinging, but he’d have to worry about that later.  The man was taking off again.  
  
“Captain America,” the man snarled a moment later, so hey, he’d figured it out, bully for him.  
  
“That’s me,” Steve grunted.  “What can I do for you?”  
  
“You’re as bad as Iron Man!” the man exclaimed.  “Nothing but a tool of the capitalistic state and the military industrial complex!  Raping the earth for your greed-driven masters!”  
  
Great.  A radical.  “The Captain America thing doesn’t mean I’m nothing but some kinda stooge,” Steve said, to keep him talking as he cast a glance at him over the edge of his shield, measuring their distance.  “What are you even doing here?  This project is just about helping people who got hurt by Onslaught.”  
  
“Ha, that’s what you’d like us to believe,” the man proclaimed.  “But I know your secrets now.  I know what you’re hiding.”  
  
“I’m not hiding a damn thing,” Steve said, and leapt at him again.  He managed to bowl him over, down to his back on the floor, and then they were trading punches.  The man hit hard, aided by the heavy weight of the gauntlets he wore, and Steve took a good few hits to the face.  He knew he was bleeding, and his ears were ringing, his head pounding.  
  
“Cap, get down!”  It was Iron Man’s voice, harsh and metallic, and Steve obeyed instantly, diving to the floor and covering his head with his shield.  He heard the unmistakable sound of a repulsor firing a moment later.  
  
Iron Man.  His heart swelled, a thrill of adrenaline racing him through him, buoying him up, chasing the pain away despite his throbbing head.  Iron Man.  Iron Man?  How could Iron Man be here?  Tony didn’t have a suit, did he?  Was it Rhodes?  But how could he possibly have responded so quickly?  What—  
  
There was another repulsor blast.  “Firebrand?” Iron Man said in a baffled voice.  “I thought you were dead.”  
  
“Nothing can stop the cause of anti-capitalist justice!” the man responded, firing another blast of fire in a circle around them.  Steve yelped and crouched down under his shield again, batting out the fire that had caught one of his pant legs with his already injured hand.  
  
“Oh, what the hell,” Iron Man said, in a world-weary tone Steve recognized all too well.  It was the epitome of how any hero felt when a villain showed up again when they thought they’d dealt with them already.  “Care to share what you’re doing here?”  
  
“I was just making my exit, as a matter of fact,” Firebrand said, and Iron Man swore, and that was when Steve realized the fire was spreading and made another lunge for the fire extinguisher as Iron Man pursued Firebrand out the window.  
  
He’d gotten the fire out, though the carpet was pretty much a loss, and was grimacing at the nasty burn on his palm, frustrated with himself for being so stupid, when Iron Man flew back in through the open window and came to a—rather shaky—landing.  Steve realized whoever it was wasn’t wearing a full suit, just the helmet, one repulsor gauntlet, the repulsor boots, and a rather jury-rigged looking chestplate that connected the two around the unibeam in the center.  As he watched, Iron Man reached up and pulled off his helmet—and Tony’s sheepish blue eyes stared into his.  “Heya, Cap,” Tony said, a crooked, uncertain little smile on his face.  “Fancy meeting you here,” and then, before Steve could say anything at all, “God, you’re hurt!”  He was there a moment later, strong gauntleted arm around Steve’s shoulders, bare hand under his, against his wrist, turning his burned palm so that he could see it.  Tony hissed in a breath, sounding distressed, and his forehead knocked a little against Steve’s cheek as he pressed their heads together.  
  
“It’ll heal,” Steve said, stupidly.  Tony’s hand felt so strong, so steadying, under his, which was just a throbbing, searing mass of pain down past his wrist now that there wasn’t a fight going on anymore.  
  
Tony made a pained noise and squeezed at his shoulder, and Steve realized he was swaying on his feet a little.  
  
“I’m fine,” Steve said, more firmly, planting his feet.  “Did he get away?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, in a tone of deep annoyance.  “He had some kind of pick up waiting for him.”  He rubbed his gauntleted thumb gently over the base of Steve’s palm, so gently it didn’t even really hurt.  “Goddamnit.  This looks really bad, Steve; we’d better get you to a doctor.”  
  
“Don’t need a doctor,” Steve said, aware that his words were starting to go a little blurry.  “Just need some rest.  Got hit in the head a few times, too.”  His hand hurt so bad, throbbing in time with his heart, but at least it looked like only a second-degree burn.  Those hurt the worst, of course, but it was better than the burn going so deep he didn’t feel the pain.  He tried not to groan, reached for the bandages (special ones that released painkillers into the skin) he always kept in his utility belt, then realized that, of course, he wasn’t wearing it, just like he hadn’t been wearing his gloves, because he was in his civvies, which was why he’d burned his damn hand in the first place.  His thighs throbbed, too, and he’d almost forgotten he’d taken a hit there, except that when he tried to take a step forward, the pain sharpened abruptly, and he almost stumbled and fell.  
  
“Oh, Jesus,” Tony said, catching him with that arm under his shoulder with an oof of effort, stumbling a little under his weight.  “Hell.  Okay, Steve.  Arm up.  That’s it.  Around my shoulders.  That’s a boy.”  He pulled Steve in, slid his un-gauntleted arm around his waist, under his shield, and put his helmet back on, before taking Steve’s forearm in his gauntlet again where he held it over his shoulders.  “Foot on my boot, sport,” he said, in a brisk, businesslike tone, and Steve obeyed, his stomach and his heart giving an unsteady little lurch when he realized how Tony was planning to carry him—the way he’d used to, hugging Steve to his side while Steve balanced on his foot.  He had to hide his face in Tony’s shoulder (strange to feel it unarmored) as he gasped for breath, his eyes suddenly warm and stinging.  “That’s it,” Tony said, tightening his arm around Steve’s waist, pulling him close, “keep your head down,” and then he was taking off, flying out them out the window just as Steve started to hear the sirens of the fire truck and police responders.  That had been slow, he thought wearily, as he clung to Tony’s body and the wind whipped past them, but then, this was a small town.  They probably didn’t get much of that kind of excitement.  Normally he’d have wanted to stick around, talk to law enforcement about what had happened, but he understood why Tony didn’t want to, why he—well, he couldn’t, really, could he?  Not and keep his identity as Iron Man, or as Tony Stark, a secret.  Or Iron Man’s identity as Tony Stark a secret, come to that.  
  
Tony had suited up as Iron Man again.  Steve wasn’t sure if the excitement thrilling through him was misplaced or not.  But didn’t this have to mean Tony had been working on a suit?  It was hard to figure it out, when his head throbbed and his palm and thighs ached with searing pain.  He blinked, tried to get his thoughts back together, and then Tony was already coming in for another shaky landing.  
  
He realized they were right outside the back stairs that led up to Tony’s little apartment above Carl’s Autobody again.  “If I were wearing a full suit,” Tony said, taking off his helmet again and shoving it under his arm before he reached for Steve’s forearm once more, “I’d just pick you up.  Sorry, big fella.”  
  
“S’okay,” Steve said, with a tired smile at him.  “I can walk up the stairs just fine.”  
  
“If you say so,” Tony muttered.  He didn’t let go of Steve, or let him pull away, insisting on supporting him all the way up the stairs.  Steve hoped he didn’t notice how heavily he actually did lean on that support, or how badly he needed the support of his forearm against the wall on his other side.  He knew it’d pass; shock and the initial pain wore off quickly for him, thanks to the serum.  He just needed to give it a few minutes.  The worst of it was the stinging burns across his thighs, making it so much harder to keep his balance, because every time he put his weight down a ripple of pain would emanate out into his muscles and take him by surprise.  
  
They were lucky enough that no one choose that supremely bad moment to come up the stairs, and soon enough they were stumbling into Tony’s apartment.  Tony closed the door behind them and toggled it locked with one hand, then flicked the light on and practically dragged Steve across the room and pushed him onto the bed with the kind of implacable determination that brooked no argument about where Tony had chosen to leave him.  Steve felt his face heat at how Tony had practically been carrying him those last few steps.  
  
“You, stay there,” Tony said, and then opened the door on the other side of the room that Steve had wondered about.  Steve could see what looked like a workshop, a small, incomplete, cheap version of Tony’s lab in the mansion.  Tony ducked inside, and then came out a moment later free of the armor, and with a first aid kit in his hands.  
  
“Sorry,” Steve said.  “I was stupid.  Forgot I wasn’t in uniform for a second there, that was all.  No gloves,” he added, with a sheepish smile, waggling the fingers of his burned hand, then flinching as it sent pain tearing through the muscles, shimmering up his arm.  
  
“You’re lucky you heal more completely than a baseline human, Rogers,” Tony said, opening the first aid kit and sitting beside him on the bed.  “If you were Clint we’d be at the hospital right now, I hope you realize, whether you liked it or not.  But I’m making an exception because it’s you, and you’re a super soldier.”  He was reaching out as he spoke, and despite the harsh frustration in his voice, his fingers were exquisitely, carefully gentle as they slid gently along Steve’s jaw, framed his face and turned it toward Tony to look at him.  His fingers were callused with work, always so careful and dexterous, long-fingered and elegant despite their callused roughness, and Steve felt his eyes fluttering as he leaned into the touch.  
  
“Yeah, jeez,” Tony breathed a moment later.  “He really got you.  Let me see.”  He tilted Steve’s jaw, gently, and Steve obediently closed his eyes and just—breathed, all his concentration that wasn’t wrapped up in the pain in his hand and across his thighs caught up in the gentleness of Tony’s touch, the warmth of it, the careful, barely-there way he brushed his fingers gently along Steve’s temple, over what had to be swelling bruises over his cheekbone and forehead.  He knew the skin had broken there, too, and Tony hissed in a breath, reacting more than Steve did, as Steve flinched slightly when his fingers brushed a cut.  “Jesus, mister,” Tony said, and his fingers gently stroked along Steve’s jaw, under his chin, brushed in a slow, soft circle over the point of it.  “Did you forget how to keep your guard up, or something?  You’re one of the best hand-to-hand fighters I know.”

  
  
“I was trying to hold his arms down,” Steve said, forcing his eyes open again.  “Get at the mechanism he uses to shoot out that fire.  Figured that was a bigger deal than protecting my face.”  He was starting to come down from the fight now, shaky and cold, and he could feel his shoulders slump, painfully aware of his failure.  “Jeez, I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him from getting away, Tony.”  
  
“Hey, I couldn’t either, and he’s one of mine,” Tony said.  “Some rescue, huh?”  His grin was rueful.  
  
“I thought it was pretty good,” Steve said, and felt himself flushing stupidly hot, smiling just as stupidly.  “It was—it was good to see Iron Man again.”  
  
“Don’t make anything of it,” Tony said, warningly.  
  
“I won’t,” Steve said.  “I know better.  I promise.  I just—I’m sorry.  I just missed you, that’s all.”  He felt like an idiot, like he was stumbling stupidly over his words.  He flushed and looked away, pulling his face out of Tony’s gentle hands.  
  
“Hey, shh,” Tony said, and his voice sounded hoarse, thick now, too, a little husky.  “It’s okay.”  He put his fingers back on Steve’s jaw, turned his face back toward his.  When Steve looked hesitantly into his face, he saw a strange, soft expression there, his eyes soft and almost yearning, as Tony bit his bottom lip, just for a moment.  They looked at each other for another few moments, and then Tony swallowed, convulsively.  “Hey,” he said again, hoarse and husky, and laid the backs of his fingers against Steve’s cheek.  “Let me get you patched up, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Steve said, swallowing hard himself.  Tony coaxed him to get up and supported him with one hand on his back—God, he was rubbing there gently, and it left Steve dizzy—as he got him to run his hand under the cold water out of the sink.  Steve leaned against the counter and tried to tear away his eyes from Tony’s face, tried not to stare at him too obviously, but it was a losing battle.  He was barely thinking about the pain as Tony cleaned the wound, washed it gently clean, first with water, then with the wound cleanser in the first aid kit, before he finished rinsing it out gently.  Steve’s breath caught up in his chest, and his chest felt tight and hot, throbbing tenderly and painfully, as Tony spread anti-bacterial ointment over the wound.

  
  
“You’re not allergic to anything, right?” Tony murmured after a moment of carefully, so carefully, using the pads of his fingers to spread ointment over Steve’s stinging palm.  
  
“Huh?” Steve said.  He hadn’t been tracking at all.  He’d been staring at Tony’s face like—like a desperate puppy dog.  Like a pining lover.  He flushed and looked down, away, suddenly aware of the way the ointment was making his hand burn and tingle with pain.  He gritted his teeth and didn’t react.  
  
“You’re not allergic to any medications, right?” Tony said, looking up with a quick, tight little lopsided smile.  “I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to use this ointment if you’re allergic to sulfa drugs.”  
  
“Oh,” Steve said.  “No, I’m not.  I’m, um, the serum took care of any of that.”  
  
“That’s what I figured,” Tony said.  “I remember your medical file said something about it.  Okay, good to know.”  He returned his attention to Steve’s hand, and God, it was just—his attention was so total, so careful, dark lashes obscuring his eyes as he covered the wound with a hydrogel dressing, then wrapped it in gauze and tied it off.  “There,” Tony said, and smiled hesitantly up at him.  “It’s not what we’d have back at the mansion, but you should be okay.”  
  
“That’s okay, Tony,” Steve said, and his voice came out hoarse and low, scratchy itself.  “I’ll be fine.  I appreciate this, so much.  It feels great.”  
  
“No, it doesn’t,” Tony said, and smiled a little more.  “It hurts like hell.  Burns always do, and that ointment stings worse when you put it on.”  
  
That was true, of course.  
  
“Okay, it doesn’t feel great,” Steve allowed.  “But I—I really appreciate you taking the time to look after it.”  His voice came out so quiet, hoarse and soft.  He felt like a total idiot.  
  
Tony smiled a little, almost sheepish, looked away and down.  “Aww, c’mon, Steve,” he said, and squeezed his wrist gently.  His fingers traced a path down his wrist, over his pulse, that had Steve shivering, his heart pounding loud in the throbbing of his head, over his eye where he was probably bruising up fast, his thumb moving in a slow, soft circle that had Steve’s heart in his throat and his chest tight and painful all over again.  Steve felt breathless when Tony pulled his hand away, just as gently, and touched his face again, just for a moment, then cleared his throat.  “Least I could do,” Tony said, almost brusquely, then, his voice not quite softening again, “He got your legs, too, didn’t he?”  
  
Steve sighed.  “Wasn’t quite fast enough,” he allowed.  “Should’ve been quicker.”  
  
“Not your fault,” Tony said.  “Okay, up you get.”  He curled his hand around Steve’s forearm, the other around his back, and tugged him up.  Steve just let himself be led, gave himself over into Tony’s care, really, followed obediently, letting his head swim dizzily, his brain fuzz out, as Tony led him into the bathroom, took off his trousers when Tony told him to until he was left in his shorts, kneeling in the tub, for Tony to hiss and tsk and shake his head over his legs, one hand firm and warm on Steve’s shoulders as he ran water over the wounds on his legs, cleaning them carefully and leaving him shivering.  Tony’s hand curled tight against his shoulders, starting to rub gently as Steve shivered and tried not to flinch or groan at the pain of having his wounds cleaned, then Tony’s arm came around him and almost—hugged him lightly, before he leaned in over Steve’s thighs and started applying the ointment there, too.  
  
It burned, and Steve stared into space and tried not to let his eyes water too much, bracing his elbows on the side of the bath, before Tony taped him up there, too, then helped him out of the water and dried him off with a towel.  He wasn’t really meeting Steve’s eyes, but Steve was too drained from the adrenaline of the fight, then the pain of his injuries, to think much of it, and just stared down at Tony, feeling helplessly grateful that he was doing this for him at all, that Tony was here, that Tony was touching him, that Tony would do this for him.  He recognized the emotion, the burning in his eyes, the choked up feeling in his throat, as part of the crash from his adrenaline high, leaving him over-emotional and needy, all the churned up emotions he’d been feeling shaken up and dragged to the surface, and he took a deep breath, bit them back.  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said, after a second, finally raising his eyes to look at Steve.  “You’re pretty out of it, huh, big guy?”  Was that fondness in his voice?  Was Steve just imagining that?  He realized he was shivering.  He always got cold easy when he was crashing.  
  
“I’m fine,” he insisted, setting his jaw and clenching his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter.  
  
“Sure,” Tony said, and Steve didn’t _think_ he was imagining the warmth or fondness in his tone now, but he couldn’t be sure.  He bent down, fumbled for his pants, and started to pull them back up clumsily, only to have Tony stop him with both hands on his.  “Uh, no,” Tony said, and when Steve looked up again, he looked flushed.  “Stop there,” he said, “I have a real loose pair of sweatpants; those’ll work better.  Let me get them.”  He rushed off, into the other room, there was the sound of him rummaging through a drawer or something, and then he was back, holding out an old ratty pair of sweatpants.  He was right, though, they were very loose, and Steve took them gratefully, even though they were loose enough they were loose over his hips, and he had to knot the drawstring to keep them on, and they left his ankles bare.  Tony handed him something else, after that, and he realized it was a surprisingly warm, old bathrobe.  “Sometimes it’s the only thing that really makes me feel warm,” Tony said, almost apologetically, and helped Steve pull it on over his shoulders so he didn’t have to use his hand.  
  
“Thanks, Tony,” Steve managed, fuzzily, only to have Tony smile at him and shake his head, then grab his chin in one hand, force his chin up.  
  
“You’re not looking so hot,” he said.  “Fuzzing out on me, huh?  Well, you can’t sleep yet, champ, I want to keep an eye on you.”  He prodded gently at the bruise above Steve’s eye, and when Steve flinched, he hissed from between his teeth again and shook his head, knotting the robe around Steve’s waist.  Tony put one hand between Steve’s shoulder blades and nudged him firmly into the main room, then got him across the room, sitting down on the couch.  Steve just sank onto the couch with a sigh and stared across the room, trying not to let himself sink into how crummy he was feeling, or think about it too much, just setting his jaw and letting his eyes glass over and—not thinking.  
  
Tony was back, a second later, kneeling before Steve before he knew what he was doing, and then pulling warm socks onto his feet before he could think to stop him, then covering him with a blanket and pushing a warm drink into his hand.  “It’s just warm milk with honey and cinnamon and ginger,” Tony said, sounding embarrassed as he curled Steve’s fingers around it, “all of which I only have because you went shopping and bought me food the other day, so really it’s your food anyway, and you should drink it, Steve.”  He was on the other side of the room a moment later, fiddling with something, and then the sound of a radio crackled to life.  A second later Tony was back by his side on the sofa, sitting beside him almost hesitantly, turning to frown into Steve’s eyes, skimming his fingers ever so gently over the bruises on Steve’s cheekbone and forehead again, before he started cleaning them up with a warm washrag, too.  
  
It took a while, while Steve sipped at his milk, and his head was spinning, but when Tony shifted back to move away, after he’d carefully taped up Steve’s cuts and bruises on his face, Steve curled the fingers of his uninjured hand around his wrist and pulled him back, barely thinking about it, just determined not to let him get away so easily.  Tony hesitated, but Steve just tugged him in, closed his eyes and put his head on his shoulder.  He wasn’t really thinking about what he was doing, it just felt right, so he did it.  He wanted to be close to Tony.  That was all he wanted, and his head ached, and it felt like it would feel better on Tony’s shoulder than it would anywhere else.  He sighed out in what felt like relief, like a cessation of a pain that wasn’t the pain in his head or his hand or his thighs, when his head settled into the warm place between Tony’s neck and the ball of his shoulder.  
  
Tony sucked in his breath, but a moment later he was resting his hand on the back of Steve’s neck.  He skimmed his fingers lightly through Steve’s hair.  Steve curled his fingers around his mug of milk and was just glad for the warmth more than anything.  “Don’t you go to sleep on me now, slugger,” Tony murmured, lips soft and warm and damp against his temple.  “I need you to stay awake.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Steve mumbled obediently.  
  
“You’d better mean that,” Tony said.  “You still awake, Steve?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Steve said, with a sigh, turning his face so that it rested even more closely against Tony’s neck and the warmth there.  He could feel his pulse in his throat that way.  
  
“Do you have the slightest clue what you’re even saying?” Tony murmured.  “Wake up a little, sweetheart, I’m worried about you.”  
  
Sweetheart?  Had Tony just called him sweetheart?  Had Steve imagined that?  He couldn’t have.  Maybe he really was hallucinating.  “Yessir,” he mumbled.  “Talk to me, Tony.”  
  
“Will that help?” Tony murmured softly, still against his temple.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve breathed.  “Would help a lot.”  He loved listening to Tony’s voice.  He loved listening to Tony.  He loved talking to him.  Just the sound of his voice felt like everything he’d wanted for months.  
  
“Okay,” Tony said, and his fingers stroked gently through his hair again, then down, so, so gently, to rub at the nape of his neck.  “What do you want me to talk about?”  
  
“Hell, anything you want to talk about,” Steve mumbled.  “What about that water pump you designed?”  
  
Tony laughed, his lips soft against Steve’s forehead, his breath warm, but he started to describe it, anyway, continuing to stroke the tips of his fingers in slow patterns over the back of Steve’s neck, up into his hair.  The soothing changes in the movement kept Steve awake, even though his eyes kept wanting to close, and he kept dragging himself out of sleep to focus more carefully on Tony’s voice.  Eventually, Tony took what was left of Steve’s milk out of his hands before he spilled it.  Steve barely noticed.  
  
Tony must have talked for hours, before he said, “Okay, look at me, Steve,” and tilted his chin up, and Steve obediently struggled to open his eyes.  “That’s better,” Tony said, and gently brushed his fingers over the skin beside Steve’s eye.  “Your pupils look right now.  I guess I can let you sleep, huh, fella?”  
  
Steve just blinked, looking at him.  Did Tony mean sleep there on the sofa?  If Tony thought it was okay, he felt desperate to sleep.  His whole body was crying out for it, the way it usually did when he was hurt, wanting to curl up and rest so the serum could take over and he could start to heal.  
  
But instead Tony prodded him up to his feet, pushed him gently over in the direction of the bed.  Steve dug in his heels when he realized where they were going.  “I can’t take your bed,” he said, wearily, exhaustion starting to make his head throb almost as badly as the bruises.  
  
“Yes, you can,” Tony said.  “And you will, you hear?  I insist.  Let me take the couch tonight, all right?  Just for one night.”  He left both hands, gently, on Steve’s shoulders, and squeezed a little.  “You’ve been so good to me,” he murmured, so soft Steve had to concentrate to focus on it.  “Let me return the favor just for one night.  When you’re hurt, and I can do a little thing to make your life easier.”  
  
Steve just—he hated it when people took pity on him, when people coddled him, but this was _Tony_ , and just the thought of Tony caring for him, about him, that way filled him with a warm glow.  It made him feel stupid enough that he knew he flushed, because he was sure Tony was just being kind, but Tony was—Tony was home, and safety, and his friend back, and more than that, Tony was—he was so lucky that Tony cared about him, and Tony was handsome and sophisticated and—and _wonderful_ , and Steve was half asleep, and so he just mumbled a slow, self-conscious assent, feeling selfish and greedy, and let Tony lead him to bed and pull back the covers to nudge him between them before he pulled them up over his shoulder.  Tony pulled down the pillow, made sure it was firmly under Steve’s aching head, then squeezed his shoulder.  “Good night, Steve,” he murmured.  
  
“Good night, Tony,” Steve mumbled.  He turned his face into Tony’s robe, took a deep breath of how it smelled like him, and was asleep in another second, feeling safe and warm, almost like Tony had put his arms around him and held him all night.


	5. If I Told You We Could Bathe In All The Lights

When Steve woke up again, he felt so much better it was almost laughable.  His headache was gone, with just a little bit of tenderness remaining around his eyes, and he felt clearheaded, with some energy again, instead of like the half-conscious mess he’d been the night before, an emotional wreck with the adrenaline crash and barely able to think. He opened his eyes and sat up.  It was clearly morning in the small apartment—morning sun was streaming in through the blinds, and from the look of it, it was later than Steve pretty much ever slept.  
  
Tony was sitting at the kitchen table, tinkering with a screwdriver and the gauntlet of the armor.  He looked up when Steve pushed himself up and smiled at him, a little hesitantly, Steve thought.  “Good morning,” he said.  “Feeling any better today?”  
  
“About a million times,” Steve said, returning that smile.  
  
“Glad to hear it,” Tony said, and dropped his head, seemingly to focus on the gauntlet, but Steve could tell there was more going on there—he was visibly jumpy, uncomfortable.  Nervous about something.  Steve didn’t have to be a genius like Tony to figure that it was probably the part where Tony had been working on a new version of the Iron Man armor, hadn’t told him, and had suited up in it to show up and help him out with Firebrand the night before.  
  
“Is it even still morning?” he asked instead, squinting at the sun outside.  “I’m sorry I slept so late.”  
  
“Oh, jeez, Steve,” Tony said, picking up the gauntlet and shaking his head at it, or at Steve, Steve wasn’t sure.  “You needed the sleep.  And it is still morning, technically.  According to the clock over there,” he pointed with his screwdriver, “it’s 11 am.”  
  
“That’s pretty technical,” Steve informed him with a smile.  Tony just shrugged, but he smiled back.  
  
“Anyway,” he said, “if you’re feeling better, that’s all I can ask for.  You were pretty out of it last night.”  He gave Steve a quick glance up, through his eyelashes, as if he was worried.  
  
“I’m fine, you know that,” Steve said, shrugging it off.  “It’s just that the serum always wants to make me pass out after I get hurt so I can heal.  I’m fine now, I promise.”  
  
“Sure,” Tony said.  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”  But his voice was lighter, and he didn’t protest when Steve got up to head to the bathroom and go through his morning routine.  He shrugged out of Tony’s robe while he was in there and hung it up, a little sheepish about having used it, and even more sheepish about the long breath he took of the smell of Tony that hung around it before he hung it up on the hook on the back of the door.  
  
As soon as he got out of the bathroom, through, Tony got him sitting down at the table, washed his hands, and insisted on changing his dressings.  Steve was relieved to see how much better the burn over his palm looked, though Tony still winced at the sight of it and insisted on cleaning it again, reapplying the ointment, before he rebandaged it.  
  
“Tony,” Steve said, and it came out soft.  “I’m okay, I promise.  It’ll heal.  The serum’s good at that.  It wasn’t even that bad.  I only touched him for a second.  I’m going to be all right.”  
  
Tony sighed.  “I just hate that you got hurt like that,” he said, fingers squeezing lightly at Steve’s wrist, at the base of his palm.  “I was right there, I—and I—and you have such nice hands, Steve.  You’re such a good artist.  I hate that he hurt your hand like that.”  His fingers curled lightly around Steve’s hand, over the back of it, not touching the injured palm, and Steve realized, distantly, that he was blushing; he could feel the heat in his skin.  
  
“It was my own fault,” he said.  And his fingers were fine.  If worst came to worst and it scarred—which it wouldn’t, thanks to Dr. Erskine and his serum; he never scarred—he could still hold a pencil.  
  
“Still,” Tony said, in an almost business like tone of voice, squeezing Steve’s wrist again before he drew his hand away.  “I hate that he hurt you.”  
  
Steve wanted to point out again that Firebrand really hadn’t hurt him, much; that the worst injury had been something he’d done to himself trying to stop him, but he was getting the picture that that distinction didn’t matter to much to Tony, so he left it, and instead just watched Tony work until he realized how hungry he was.  “Do you mind if I have some breakfast?” he asked, blushing, the third time his stomach growled audibly.  
  
“God, no,” Tony said absently.  “You go ahead.  Make sure and eat enough to feed that metabolism of yours,” he added.  “I know you need more when you’re healing.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Steve muttered, but it wasn’t like Tony was wrong, either, so he made himself a double helping of eggs and bacon and sat down to eat it at the table.  Tony pushed aside a pile of screws and pieces of scrap metal to make room for him, but didn’t stop working.  
  
Steve just watched him for a bit while he was eating, but once he’d eaten and made them both a cup of coffee (it took him only a little bit longer to do the cooking with only one hand, which he was absently proud of), which Tony thanked him for absently, he sat down and sipped his coffee and then asked, “So, what are you working on?”  
  
Tony froze, just for a second, before he almost smoothly reached for another tiny screw and said, not quite evenly, “The gauntlet for the armor, what does it look like?”  
  
“That is what it looks like, yeah,” Steve said calmly, and took another swallow of his coffee.  “That’s just about why I asked, Tony.”  
  
Tony bit his lip, and his hand curled into a fist against the table.  “I,” he said.  “I know, I know, I mean.  This probably looks like—but I meant what I said, Steve.  I told you; it doesn’t mean anything.”  
  
“I don’t see how that could be true,” Steve said, more hotly than he’d meant to.  He hadn’t mean to sound that emotional, he hadn’t.  It was just—it was just that Iron Man meant a lot to him, he figured.  
  
He guessed that was the whole problem.  He didn’t want to have to choose between Iron Man or Tony, as if he couldn’t have both in his life at once anymore.  But maybe he was going to have to.  And if he had to, well, of course he’d choose Tony.  Tony was the one that mattered.  Had to be, at the end of the day.  Iron Man was just part of Tony.  A big part, sure, an important part, but Tony was the person behind Iron Man, the whole person.  He was who Steve really cared about.  
  
“I don’t think it matters what you can see or what you think, Steve,” Tony said, tightly.  His hand clenched on his screwdriver.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Steve allowed, after he took a deep breath and blew it back out.  “I can see that.”  And maybe he was overstepping his place.  “It matters what you think, at the end of the day, not me.”  
  
Tony looked at him as if startled, as if he hadn’t expected him to say that.  “Steve—” he started.  
  
“And I said I wouldn’t push, and here I am pushing, isn’t that right?” Steve asked.  
  
Tony flushed, and his face did something weird—he bit his lip, then rubbed a hand through his hair, down over his face, his mouth.  “I, um,” he said, then smiled crookedly at Steve, then looked away.  “Maybe a little.  I guess.”  
  
“Then I’m sorry,” Steve said, and took another long breath.  “I didn’t come here to—to make you uncomfortable or to pressure you.  I said that, and I meant it.”  
  
“But—come on, Steve,” Tony said, after a second.  “Be honest with me.  You came—you came looking for Iron Man.  It’s got to bother you, at least a little.  It has to—I must sound so selfish to you.  Or—or irresponsible.  My just being here has to be making it more dangerous for these people—there’s no way Firebrand would have showed up here if it wasn’t for me; someone must be looking for me, if it wasn’t his own big idea.  Why else would he have come here?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, feeling a sudden stab of guilt that he hadn’t mentioned it more clearly earlier, but he’d thought there’d been no way Tony was ready to hear it.  “About that.  You remember I mentioned Paladin and me getting in a fight on the way here?”  
  
Tony gave him a wary look out of the corner of his eyes.  “Yeah?” he said, slowly.  He clearly knew something was up.  
  
“Well, it seemed like he might be looking for uh, Tony Stark, that’s all,” Steve said.  “I had the distinct impression he might have been hired by uh,” there was no good way to say this, “your cousin Morgan.  Mr. Stark—that is, Morgan—he spoke with me after I’d gone to visit Ms. Potts and Lieutenant Rhodes.  It felt like he probably had an ulterior motive.  Or ten.”  
  
“Or ten?” Tony said after a second, with a wry smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.  “Yeah, that sounds like Morgan.  Jesus.”  He put a hand to his head and rubbed his fingers against his forehead.  “You’re saying that you think Morgan was behind the break-in, somehow, some way, if you get down to brass tacks.”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, relieved that Tony didn’t seem angry he hadn’t mentioned it before now.  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.  If there was any reason to think Paladin might have tracked me here, I swear I would have told you before this.”  
  
Tony shook his head, waved it off with one hand.  “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, Steve,” he said.  “There’s a paper trail, like the one you followed; I wasn’t as conscientious about covering that up as I should have been.  That’s probably how Morgan or Paladin or Firebrand or whoever found me, if Firebrand was breaking into the Restoration Project.  I just—I just wish I hadn’t brought any of this down on them.”  He sighed, looking suddenly incredibly tired.  
  
“It’s not your fault, Tony,” Steve said, immediately.  Jesus.  The last thing Tony needed was to feel guilty over that, too.  “If Morgan’s so paranoid or has such a guilty conscience about—whatever his issue with you is that he’s spending all this effort to track you down, that’s his problem, not yours.  And Firebrand’s recklessness, that’s not your fault, either.  You can’t be responsible for everyone else’s decisions.”  
  
“That’s rich,” Tony muttered, “coming from you,” but he gave Steve a distracted little smile, too, so it didn’t sting _too_ badly.  
  
“Yeah, well, I know what a weight it can put on you,” Steve said, because it wasn’t exactly like Tony was wrong about him.  He couldn’t deny that.  “So listen to me, Tony, huh?”  
  
“I’m listening,” Tony said, and sighed.  “So, Morgan?”  He ran a hand back through his hair, clenched it distractedly in the already tousled curls.  “God.  Of course it would be him.”  
  
“I don’t know what he’s after,” Steve said.  “It was just—it was the feeling I had.”  He was sure of it, based on Paladin’s reactions, but it wasn’t like he could point to any one thing in particular.  
  
“No, I believe you,” Tony said.  “You have good instincts.  And besides, it sounds like him.  He’s always resented me for the company, for having it at all, when he didn’t get to.  It’s a long story.  I’m sure the last thing he wants is my miraculous resurrection.  He’s probably feeling some stress about that right about now, wondering if I’m dead or alive.”  He smiled faintly and shook his head.  “He never could leave well enough alone.  Here I am, playing dead, and he’s trying to dig me up, probably to find out if I really am.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad you’re really not,” Steve said, quietly, gravely, because of how deeply he meant it.  Tony sent him a distracted smile.  
  
“Thanks, Steve,” he said, then covered his face with both hands and sighed.  “The last thing I wanted,” he said, “was to bring more danger to innocent people just from being here.”  
  
“You didn’t, Tony,” Steve said, firmly.  “Like I said.  That was the choice Morgan and Paladin and Firebrand and whoever else, not yours.  It’s been this long with you here, and it’s been quiet.  If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, for not letting well enough alone.  For having to go out and look for you.  That’s obviously what’s stirred Morgan up.”  
  
“You couldn’t have known,” Tony said.  “It’s not your fault, Steve.”  But he did bring his hands down away from his face.  “But yeah,” he said after a moment.  “I guess I’ll have to deal with this, one way or another.  Confront him.  Resolve things.”  He looked sick to his stomach at the thought.  
  
“You don’t have to do it right now,” Steve said.  “We don’t know if proof of you being here is what they were after.  Or if it was, if they found it or not, either.”  
  
“Don’t borrow trouble?” Tony said with a short, wry laugh.  “I’d’ve thought you’d be all over this, Steve.  Isn’t this what you’ve been saying?  Exactly this?  That I can’t hide from who I am forever?  That I’ll have to deal with it sometime?”  
  
Well, Steve thought.  That was true enough.  But it was obvious, too, that Tony wasn’t ready.  You couldn’t force someone back into the field.  It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and besides that, it was a good way to get them killed.  Was Tony ready to be thrown back in with the Avengers?  Steve really didn’t think so.  He knew in his heart, or he thought he knew, he allowed, that Tony would manage it, that he’d do great.  But it was clear that Tony didn’t think that, and didn’t Tony deserve some time for himself?  Hadn’t he thought that, too?  Didn’t Tony deserve some time to recover, without having to make a choice one way or another?  
  
Tony had showed up when he was needed.  He’d been, apparently, building this new armor all this time.  Clearly he was a lot more conflicted about walking away than he’d let on earlier.  Did Steve have to push him on top of that?  Steve knew he pushed on everything, about everything.  Push, push, push, that was him.  His ma had always said so.  Bucky had always said so, too.  _Ya always gotta push, Cap._   He could still hear it in his voice.  
  
But Tony meant so much to him.  He didn’t want to hurt him.  He didn’t have to push _now_.  “There’s time,” he said instead.  
  
Tony’s shoulders hunched as if he was suddenly feeling a thousand pound weight.  “And then what?” he asked hoarsely.  “Even if there is time, then what happens?  What will I have to do?”  
  
Steve shrugged.  “Up to you, way I see it,” he said.  “Tony, if you need me to deal with your cousin for you, I can do that.  Captain America can be pretty intimidating.  If you need me to read him the riot act about disturbing Tony Stark’s memory, or tell him a whole passel of lies, or even thump him into next Sunday for you, I can do that.  You can get me to deal with him; you don’t have to let him know it’s you.  I’m sure you can think of a hundred more ways to do that than I can, even.”  
  
“You’re saying you’ll keep my secret for me?” Tony asked, hoarse and husky and wryly disbelieving.  “You?  Captain America, all that’s good and just and true?  You know how honest you are, Steve.”  
  
“I do,” Steve said.  “And I know how much I care about you, too, and how you’re doing, Tony, and I know which of those is more important to me.  And all the more reason why someone should believe me when I say you’re not about to show up again.  If that’s what you decide.”  He reached out, closed his hand over Tony’s on the table.  Tony’s felt clammy under his fingers.  “I meant what I said,” he told him.  “I’m here for you.  I want to help you through this.  That’s all I want.”  
  
“I don’t deserve that, Steve,” Tony said, voice breaking, not meeting his eyes.  
  
“I don’t care,” Steve said.  “What you think you deserve.  I care about you, and that’s just—just the end of it.  Period.  That’s how it is, Tony Stark.”  
  
Tony covered Steve’s hand with his, then took a deep, shaking breath, and bent his head, rested his forehead against both of them.  “What did I do to deserve you?” he asked, and his voice was strangled, thick and shaking and choked with tears.  
  
“You were you, Tony, that’s all,” Steve said, feeling his own eyes sting.  “That’s all.”  He wanted to reach out, run a hand through Tony’s hair, cup the back of his neck and squeeze, gently, but he couldn’t, what with his hand being as hurt as it was, so he just brushed his fingertips lightly through Tony’s hair.  “That’s all anyone would need, mister.”  
  
Tony pushed himself up, shied away to rub one hand roughly across his face, over his eyes.  “I don’t understand you,” he said, thickly.  “I—I don’t see why you, you—you’re so patient with me, why you’re here like this, I—I just don’t.”  
  
Steve’s throat ached.  His heart ached.  “You don’t have to understand,” he whispered.  “As long as you let me.  I just want to help.”  
  
Tony looked almost desperately into his eyes, and then his hand twined tightly with Steve’s, held it tight to the table.  “If I were a good man,” he said, and he still sounded choked up, like it hurt to get the words out, “I’d send you away.  But I’m not.  I’m so—so selfish.  I just want you here with me.  I want to—to keep this for myself.  Your company.  Your belief in me.  I’m not even giving you anything, I—I can’t even give you a promise—” his voice broke.  
  
“That’s all right, Tony,” Steve told him, his heart just—just a tight, throbbing pain at what Tony was saying.  “Because I want to be here with you.  That’s what I want, too.”  
  
“Why?” Tony demanded, and his tone was almost begging.  
  
“Because I care about you,” Steve said, “and—and jeez, Tony, damn it, you care about me, too.”  
  
“I do,” Tony said, thickly.  “I always have.  You’re—you’re one of my best friends.”  His hand was sweaty and hot against Steve’s.  
  
“Well, same goes for you, mister,” Steve said.  “I don’t—I don’t need you to be Iron Man, Tony.  Just be you.  That would be enough for me.”  
  
Tony dashed his hand across his eyes again.  “I was sitting here, waiting for you to wake up,” he said, “expecting you to read me the riot act for—for lying to you when I’d been building a brand new armor all along, and all you’re going to say is that it’s all right?”  
  
“Well, you could tell me about that,” Steve said.  “I’m all ears, fella.”  
  
Tony sighed, and rubbed his hand across his mouth.  “I keep telling myself it’s for Rhodey,” he said, looking down at his hands, rolling his screwdriver back and forth under one of them.  
  
“Last I heard,” Steve said, “Rhodes had a brand new salvage business, and last I heard before that, he was flying a different kind of armor.  The War Machine.  Not the Iron Man armor.  Have you asked him if he wants to be Iron Man again?”  
  
“No,” Tony said, almost noiseless.  “And—and you’re right.  I don’t even know if I could, after what being Iron Man did to him last time.  It feels—it feels cruel.  Wrong.  So I—” he ran his hands back into his hair, buried his face in his palms “—I don’t know why I even built it.  I just felt like I needed to.  Like it was something I needed to be doing.  Maybe I felt like if the armor wasn’t—wasn’t there, wasn’t real, I’d never know one way or the other if I wanted to go back to being Iron Man again.”  He sighed, heavily.  “Maybe I couldn’t help myself.  Maybe it—being Iron Man—maybe it’s just as much of an addiction as the booze.”  He looked ashamed, when he brought his hands down, looked away, quickly, his face flushed.  
  
“I—” Steve said, and stopped himself.  “Maybe,” he allowed.  “God knows I don’t think I could stop helping people if I wanted to.  I’ve tried it, and yeah, sure enough, I felt naked without my shield there beside my hand.  But Tony—I don’t think that’s a bad thing.  That you’ve got such a drive to help people that you can’t stop.  If that’s—if that’s who you are, I think it just shows how good you are, at the end of the day.  And if it just—if that just means we’re both—addicts—I don’t think that’s a very fair way to look at it.  I mean, addicted to helping people?  Is that such a bad thing?”  
  
“Maybe we do it for different reasons,” Tony said, looking down at his hands.  “I—I mean, you do it because you’re good.  I just—I just do it to feel like I’m worth something.  I’m so—selfish.  At the end of the day, that’s all I am.”  
  
“You don’t think it ever helps me feel like I’m worth something when I’m feeling lost or out of place or like I don’t have a place in the modern world anymore?” Steve asked.  “Jesus, Tony, do you think I’m some kind perfect, unfeeling statue?  I’m human, too.  I feel—lost, I get down, I—I’m not always perfect, either.  I do things for my own selfish reasons.”  He swallowed, hard, because he was afraid, so afraid, that everything he was doing here, the reason he’d come looking for Tony at all, was all just another bunch of selfish reasons.  Tony thought he was so good, so generous, but he didn’t feel that way at all.  He’d felt better, happier, stronger, warmer, just _better_ since he’d been here with Tony, and that was the truth of it.  Wasn’t it selfish to want to be with Tony, just so he could have that, when Tony was going through hell?  
  
But it didn’t feel selfish.  That felt like such a dark, twisted way to look at it.  It felt—good, warm and bright, like they were both stronger, both happier together, like it made a warmer world for both of them.  He hoped that was true.  He hoped it was just—just everything Tony had been through that was making him think like that, see it in such a twisted, dark way.  That if he was in a better place Tony would feel just as warm and strong as Steve did when he was with him.  
  
“Don’t assume that I’m so much better than you,” Steve said, thickly, aching.  “Why can’t you assume that we’re in this together?”  
  
“I—I mean,” Tony said, and he sounded like he was aching, too.  “I’m sorry.  I hear what you’re saying, Steve.  I—I don’t mean to make you feel like I don’t think you’re human, too.  I’m just—I’m sorry.”  
  
“Stop apologizing,” Steve said painfully.  
  
“All right,” Tony said, with a little ghost of a smile.  He looked up at Steve for a moment, eyes red-rimmed and tired, mouth quirking in the tiniest smile, painful and wry and incredibly endearing, and suddenly, something that Steve had never let himself think out loud, never let himself really see, hit him, hit him like Firebrand had hit him in the face the night before.  
  
He was in love with Tony.  How had he never seen that before?  How had he never let himself see that before?  How was he only realizing that now—when it was almost too late—God, how close he’d come to losing him—losing him forever, losing him for good—  
  
Steve took a deep breath.  
  
“Well,” Tony said, turning his eyes, his attention, back to the gauntlet in his hands, no longer looking at Steve, as if Steve hadn’t just had the realization of a lifetime.  “I have to deal with this situation, whatever it is, anyway, so in a way, it’s a good thing I’ve been working on this damn armor.  I wish I’d been quicker, that’s all.  If I’d been quicker about it maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”  
  
“C’mon, Tony, I’m fine,” Steve managed, embarrassed.  “Not that I didn’t appreciate the backup.”  
  
“I’m a little rusty,” Tony said.  “I—I’ll do better next time.  Whatever that is.”  
  
“We’ll figure it out,” Steve said, “together,” and felt himself flush, “won’t we?”  
  
“That’s the current plan, anyway,” Tony said with wry humor.  “Let me know if you have any ideas.”  
  
They sat there in near silence for another few moments.  Steve watched Tony working on the gauntlet, his quick, efficient movements, the controlled, meticulous way he seemed to know where he wanted each small screw or wire, all the time, and felt a sudden surging ache of nostalgia, of all the times he’d seen him do this, and the sight of it had filled him with a sense of warmth, of fondness, of _home_ and safety and well-being, because this was Tony, and Tony was everything he wanted, everything wonderful about this future, and yet so comforting, so warm and funny and real and _understandable_ at the same time.  God, was it any wonder Steve had fallen in love with him?  Tony had given him a home.  And he was handsome, and sophisticated—brave and kind—he’d explained things about the future to him, and never gotten impatient, instead he’d made a joke out of it in a way that had made Steve feel like he was included.  No wonder Steve had never been able to walk away from him, not ever.  No wonder seeing him hurt made Steve feel like his insides were being pummeled or twisted up by huge, cruel, squeezing hands.  
  
Sure, their relationship had been—complicated over the years.  Tony was, well, not perfect.  A mess.  Unstable.  In some ways.  A lot of ways.  Steve knew that.  He was vulnerable and suffering right now, fighting, with himself more than anything, and he—he apparently thought such awful things about himself, things Steve had never really known about until he’d come to find him, or not let himself know about.  But he was still Tony, and he was wonderful in a way that Steve had—he’d always felt, but never let himself really think about before.  Not like _this_.  
  
“At least once I get this one done I’ll be able to use both repulsors,” Tony said after a moment, then, when Steve didn’t respond, he looked up, more uncertainly.  “Steve?” he said, and he must have seen something in his face, because then he said, eyes wide and uncertain, “What is it?”  
  
“Tony,” Steve said slowly, because Tony was right, he was honest, and maybe—well, Tony had said that Steve was one of his best friends, and maybe that meant he wasn’t anything else, and Tony didn’t feel anything else for him, but Steve knew this was important, knew he needed to say it, knew he’d never be able to hide it, now that he’d realized, and it would twist him up trying.  There was no way he’d be able to stay here, practically in Tony’s bedroom most of the time most days, and think about that, and not give it away.  He knew himself.  And Tony deserved his honesty.  He deserved that from him.  He reached out, covered Tony’s hand with his own again, squeezed it lightly.  “Do you want to know the reason I can’t let this go?  Why I can’t walk away from you, at the end of the day?”  
  
Tony gave a light, nervous little laugh.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I’d love to, if you’re actually going to tell me.  It bothers me, you know?  I can’t see why you’d—you’d stick around, and I—I guess I just—”  
  
“Listen,” Steve said, and brought his uninjured hand up, let it curve around the fine, angular but strong line of Tony’s jaw, brushing the backs of his fingers over his cheek, before he cupped it there and leaned in, letting his nose, his breath brush along Tony’s skin, feeling his messy overgrowth of beard, the strange way it changed the contours of his face from what he was still used to, “it’s pretty straightforward,” he said, with a rueful smile for himself for being so slow to catch on, and then he pressed his lips to Tony’s.  
  
It might have been terrifying if he’d paused to think about it, but lucky for him he’d done it a few minutes after the idea had first really established itself in his brain.  It was still surreal, almost dizzying, the idea that his lips were pressed to Tony’s—that he was kissing _Tony Stark_.  That he was kissing Tony.  Tony, his first real friend in this time, the man who had given him a home.  Who’d always meant so much to him.  Who still did, who now, after the past few weeks and the time they’d spent together, meant more to him than ever.  He felt his breath tighten and tremble as his lips touched Tony’s, as he felt the warmth of him, the way Tony’s mouth trembled under his, too, the way he shivered and froze into immobility.  
  
Steve didn’t exactly just go around kissing people right and left, but he’d kissed a good few in his time—he knew what he was doing.  He kept it gentle, parted his lips just a little bit and let his bottom one linger, soft as a breath, over Tony’s, turned his head until their mouths fit together.  He closed his eyes, because he didn’t know if he’d ever get to kiss Tony again, and he wanted to concentrate on how it felt, on the scratch of Tony’s beard against his cheek, the taste of his breath, the warmth of his skin and his body against Steve’s, every last bit of it, just in case he never got it again.  He slid his hand up along Tony’s shoulder, let his fingers curl around the back of his neck, up into his hair, just because he couldn’t help wanting to touch him more.  Wanting to hold him.  Tony still didn’t respond, not at all, just stayed there frozen, lips slightly parted, soft but immobile under Steve’s, and Steve figured that wasn’t the way notorious playboy Tony Stark usually kissed his dames.  Or his fellas, come to that.  Or anyone else.  
  
He was about to start panicking and, at least, pull away and apologize, and hell, he’d better make it a good one, when Tony shivered, shuddered under him, and moaned, faint and low in his throat, in his chest, scratchy and hoarse.  He was leaning into Steve a second later, a desperate, needy, abortive movement, pressing himself up against Steve all at once, hot, clumsy need in his mouth as it fell open.  It was a hungry, clumsy kiss, Tony’s mouth hot and desperate on his, but then Tony’s hand was coming up, curling in his hair, too, against the back of his neck, and he was holding Steve at his neck and tilting his own head into it, ducking his head down, and their mouths slid soft and wet and perfect together, and then Tony was _really_ kissing him instead of just mouthing needy and sloppy at his lips, and okay, Steve could believe that this _was_ the way notorious playboy Tony Stark kissed you to show you he wanted to keep you around.  It was a hot, deep, knowing kiss, but somehow sweet for all that, Tony moaning brokenly as he pressed into Steve’s mouth, as he practically sucked the air right out of Steve’s lungs with the sweet, wet heat of him, how he squeezed and rubbed at the back of Steve’s neck, holding him tight, practically massaging him there, and damn, damn did he know what to do with his tongue.

  
  
When they finally pulled away, they just stayed there for a long moment, Steve hardly daring to pull away further and maybe break the spell, make Tony change his mind.  Remind him that he didn’t want this, maybe.  Just the thought of moving, of no longer breathing Tony’s warm, softly damp breath, felt wrong.  Their foreheads were practically touching.  He finally opened his eyes, almost hesitantly, just to see Tony with his own eyes closed, dark lashes heavy against his cheeks, practically holding his breath, and God, his mouth, it was so wet with their kisses, wet and swollen and red.  
  
Tony pressed his fingers clumsily against Steve’s lips, still not opening his own eyes, and breathed in a hoarse, shaking, shuddering breath.  He dragged his fingers down, caressing Steve’s mouth, his cheek, clumsily, before he curled his wet fingers around his jaw.  Something seized up tight and wonderful in Steve’s chest, and it felt almost like the beats of his heart were skipping painfully.  
  
“Steve?” Tony murmured softly, hesitantly.  “Is that—did that—did that just happen?”  His voice sounded so hoarse, deep and rough and lower than usual.  “Did you just—kiss me?”  
  
“You bet,” Steve managed to get out, and lord, his own voice was just as rough, just as soft and low and husky, almost a full octave lower than his usual register.  He curled his hand around the back of Tony’s neck, squeezed, brought him even closer, brushed a soft kiss along the seam of his lips, the edge of his mouth.  
  
Tony’s voice was hoarse and broken, raspy and rough and even scratchier when he spoke again.  “I don’t—don’t see how that’s an answer,” he mumbled, screwing his eyes even more tightly shut.  
  
“Don’t you?” Steve asked against his lips, able to feel the warmth and moisture of his own breath against them.  He rubbed the back of Tony’s neck again.  “You’re the genius, fella.”  He bit his own lip, couldn’t help it, then moved in, feathered another kiss across Tony’s, sucked gently on the bottom one.  “Should I give you a hint?”  Tony wasn’t pushing him away.  The thought was somehow heady, dizzying, almost too much.  Tony wasn’t pushing him away; did that mean Tony wanted this just as much as he did?  How long had he wanted it?  Did he feel how Steve did?  
  
Tony groaned, and his hand slid down, curled in Steve’s shirt and tugged him closer.  “I—I—” he said, and Steve thought, _I’d better make sure there aren’t any misunderstandings here now, anyway._   That was the last thing Tony in particular needed right now.  
  
And it was a little cruel to tease Tony now, of all times; he could see that.  Steve could be brave.  He could speak how he felt aloud, even if it meant Tony rejecting him.  He let his fingers curl through Tony’s heavy, messily tousled curls, petting through them, tugging gently.  “I’m in love with you, mister,” he said softly.  
  
Tony sucked in a hard, shocked breath, and froze in place again.  “I—I—what?” he said, and the befuddled, shocked confusion in his voice was honestly heartbreaking, how genuinely confused and surprised and lost the genius sounded just at that.  “I—you—can’t—Steve— _why_?”  
  
“That’s a hell of a question, you know,” Steve murmured, still unable to stop his soft massaging of the back of Tony’s neck, practically kneading the pads of his fingers in against the tense muscles.  “How long do you want me to go on for?”  
  
That at least got a wry, crooked smile from Tony, a tiny one tugging only at one corner of his mouth, but still, a smile.  “Steve,” he said, and opened his eyes a fraction.  
  
“The short answer is,” Steve said, looking into Tony’s eyes very seriously, with all the sincerity, all the honesty, he had in him, “because you’re the person I always want to come back to.  Who I can’t walk away from, not really, because even when I do, I can’t keep from coming back in—in my head, and my heart.  Because—because you gave me a home, and you feel like home to me, Tony.  And heck, because I just like you.  A—a whole heck of a lot.”  
  
“What if I said I thought you were crazy,” Tony said, in a low, rough voice, hardly breathing.  He looked shocked and breathless and barely able to believe what he was hearing.  
  
“I’d say I’ve been called worse things for worse reasons,” Steve said.  He swallowed, and his throat suddenly hurt.  “You—you don’t have to love me back, you know.  You don’t have to do anything.  But you asked.  And, well, that’s my answer.”  
  
“Don’t have to—I—what are you—” Tony stammered.  “Are you kidding?”  His eyes were wide, so wide and dark.  A second later, Tony’s hand was in his hair, tugging Steve forward, his mouth back down onto his, and he was kissing Steve for all he was worth, which was to say he was kissing him like a billion dollars and change, a hot, heady, passionate kiss, with so much feeling in it that Steve could barely think, let alone breathe.  When Steve’s head was swimming and his throat was thick and his chest hot and full and aching, Tony finally pulled away again, with a hot, dirty curl and flick of his tongue over Steve’s bottom lip that had Steve suddenly intensely, distractingly aware of his throbbing cock and how it was, painfully, standing to attention.  He could barely think about that, though, not when Tony was panting there in front of him, leaning their foreheads together, his eyes barely visible except for the tiny little strip of blue visible beneath his lids and the heavy lattice of his dark eyelashes, and his face looked the way it did, tight and overcome and trembling with emotion.  He slid his arm around Tony’s shoulders, not using his injured hand, but still holding him close with his arm and forearm.  “Steve,” Tony said thickly, and his hand trembled in his hair.  “I’ve—I’ve loved you for—for _years_.  God, I thought you knew.  I thought my stupid fucking crush was visible from—from space; I thought you knew and you just weren’t saying anything to let me down gently, I thought—I thought you knew, I thought everyone knew, I, I—Steve.”  His voice broke, clearly dying in his throat, and his eyes were wide, desperate, for reassurance, for something, anything.   He looked desperate and desperately confused.  He was shaking in Steve’s arms.  
  
“I didn’t know,” Steve said, softly, a little thickly himself, thinking about how he hadn’t known, hadn’t known anything, and yet Tony had apparently been thinking his own love for him was totally pointless for years.  He pulled him closer and ran his hand through Tony’s hair, cupping the back of his head as firmly but gently as he could.  “And the last thing I want to do is let you down.”  That was true in so many ways, but it was true in that one, too.  It was true in all the different ways Steve could think of.  
  
He pulled Tony closer, brought him into another kiss, and Tony gave a sobbing little breath and grabbed Steve’s shirt in both his fists, knotting them up in the cloth as he leaned in, mouth still just as hot and desperate on his, even though this time there was something wet and helpless and clumsy and not quite sloppy in his kiss, beneath Steve’s mouth, Tony’s mouth giving and soft under Steve’s as Steve moved to kiss him more deeply.  
  
When Steve pulled away, slow and lingering and soft, not quite wanting to leave Tony’s lips behind, casting his eyes up to meet Tony’s, still stroking his fingers gently through Tony’s hair, cupping his hand at the back of his head, Tony’s only slowly fluttered open as Steve caught his breath, and then he bit his bottom lip, gave a sound that was almost like a breath and almost like a groan and almost like a sob, and then he leaned forward, pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder, shuddering all over.  Steve found himself passing his hand down over Tony’s spine, squeezing to hold him even closer.  He pulled Tony close into him as he took big, gasping, heaving breaths.  
  
“God, Steve,” Tony gasped helplessly, on another breath that sounded almost like a sob.  His hands slid up, twisting in Steve’s shirt and then smoothing out, clenching tight against his shoulders a second later.  “I’ve loved you for so—so long, how can this be—are you—” his voice was a twisted, broken thing “—are you seriously saying that you were pining after me that whole time, and I never knew?”  
  
“No,” Steve said, honestly, though he thought it would hurt his overall point if he told Tony he’d literally just realized.  When Tony had apparently—God.  But he could tell him some of the truth.  “Not exactly.  I felt—I felt so deeply for you, but I never thought about it quite like that.  I never realized.  I’m slow that way.  I’m sorry.  But I—it was losing you,” he said, and it came out so rough, rasping over thick emotion in his throat.  “I realized—it was how much I missed you.  I realized how much I wanted you with me.  Want you with me.”  He held Tony even closer, pressed a kiss into his hair, above his temple, couldn’t help himself.  “I missed you so much, and—and eventually I realized that how I was thinking about you—it wasn’t the same way I’d think about missing a friend, not exactly.  And I—I—I _wanted_ you, Tony.  I want you so much.  I want you with me all the time, every day.”  
  
“Steve,” Tony said brokenly, and then he was kissing him again, and there was the taste of tears in it, wet and salty, but Steve didn’t mind, because he was feeling more than a little overcome himself.  A little tight in his throat, choked up and struggling with it.  He just pulled Tony even closer and kissed him back all over again, as deep and hot and real and solid and passionate as he knew how.  And Tony pressed himself close and moaned in the back of his throat, both hands coming up now to twine in Steve’s hair and drag his mouth closer down onto his, his own grazing hot fire over Steve’s lips with every quick, wet pass, until Steve let him settle their mouths together and started to kiss him even more deeply, curling his tongue into Tony’s panting, open mouth.  
  
He was leaning over the table almost entirely now, pressing Tony down into his chair, and Tony had his head bent back, his fingers tight in Steve’s hair.  Steve barely had the presence of mind to pushing himself up, skirt the table, so he could go heavily onto his knees in front of Tony’s chair, shoving it back from the table just enough that he could get in there, brace one hand on the seat of it and use the other to pull Tony’s head back down into a kiss.  Tony moaned and kissed him back with all the more fervor, mouth so hot and so sweet and soft and needy that Steve wasn’t sure how he’d be able to bring himself to do anything else other than kiss Tony ever again.  He tilted his head into the kiss, so he could get a deeper, better angle, found himself tugging at Tony’s hair, using it to tilt his head back, and the moan Tony gave at that, the way he arched his neck into it, it did more for Steve on its own than any dirty picture he’d ever seen, and he tried to swallow his answering groan, or, failing that, lose it deep in Tony’s mouth.  
  
He felt hot and trembling now, all over, and he hadn’t realized that kissing Tony would do this to him, and so quickly, but he probably should have, and he didn’t want to push Tony into anything he didn’t want to do, or wasn’t ready for, not ever.  
  
Tony, though, was just kissing him more hotly, more heatedly, ever deeper, his fingers twining in Steve’s hair as he pressed into him, tilted his face down for Steve’s kisses until Steve rocked up further onto his knees, headless of the pain in his thighs, just so that he could pull Tony’s head back and kiss him even more deeply, cradling his head in his hand as he kissed him, their mouths so hot and so perfect together Steve could barely remember how to breathe.  Steve had kissed and been kissed by quite a few in his life, but he’d never been kissed by anyone like how Tony was kissing him now, like a man offered water in the desert, or a drowning man given air through his lips and the touch of his tongue.  The need, the desperation, was almost overwhelming, almost unnerving, the way Tony was throwing himself into it so completely, almost clinging to Steve, his mouth so hot and needing, but it was impossible not to get caught up in it; it went straight to something deep in Steve’s soul, and he found himself responding, letting Tony’s intensity fan his own, pull him in, until he found himself panting, hand clenched in Tony’s hair, stroking the back of his neck and clutching at him tight, as he pressed between Tony’s legs until they were chest to chest, heedless of the pain in his injured thighs, his forearm curling tight against Tony’s back.  Tony kissed like nobody’s business, his hand tangling in Steve’s hair, at the back of his neck, the other rubbing along Steve’s thigh in a way that made him feel hot and dizzy.  He groaned into Tony’s mouth, and he felt him smile against his own lips, which was dizzying in another way, all on its own.  
  
Tony’s teeth grazed lightly against Steve’s bottom lip, and Steve felt it with a wave of heat, of desire, as Tony leaned in against him, curled his hand around to squeeze at the back of Steve’s thigh, up to his rear, pulling him in even closer as he teased his bottom lip between his teeth, sucked on it until it was stinging with sensitivity, alight with sensation, and Steve was panting, then swept his tongue into Steve’s mouth again.  Steve felt, heard himself moan, broken and low, coming out of him all scratching and rough as he clutched at Tony, leaned into the kiss, and only realized it had shifted into a hot, needy whine when he heard it in his own voice, vibrating in his ears, hot and muffled against Tony’s mouth.  He felt himself flush, but then Tony’s hand was tugging at his hair, at the back of his neck, back down in against his mouth, and Steve was lost in the heat and pleasure of the kiss, of the sensations washing down over him, hot all over his skin.  
  
Tony’s hand slid down the back of Steve’s thigh, squeezing, and Steve heard himself moan.  His cock throbbed as if Tony had touched it instead as Tony massaged up and down the back of his thigh, his fingers curling in tight against the muscles.  He felt himself groan hot and wet into Tony’s mouth, their lips sliding messy and sloppy and sweet along each other, as Tony bit at his bottom lip again and sent heat sparking down along Steve’s spine, going hot to his cock until he was throbbing hot and hard and heavy in Tony’s sweatpants.  His head swam. Tony’s hand felt so sweaty and warm at the back of his neck, and he groaned as Tony tugged him forward with the other hand at the back of his thigh, felt himself press forward until he felt hot, glorious pressure against his groin, the warmth of Tony’s thigh against him.  His whole body was alive with sensation, hot with it from head to toe, and he could barely think.  It took him long moments to realize how he was grinding up against Tony, panting into his mouth.  He would have pulled away, in that first moment of realization, mortified that his desire might be pushing too hard, too fast, be too obvious and crude, but then Tony’s hands both fell to his rear and squeezed, pulling him in, not letting him pull away, and Steve could hear how much his answering groan wavered as that put more perfect, glorious pressure on the hot need between his legs.  
  
“Ah, yeah, you like that, big boy?” Tony murmured against his throat, against his pulse, and a thrill went through Steve, tingling down his spine and pulling tight and hot in his belly, just to hear him say that, his low throaty voice and hot breath against Steve’s skin.  His mouth was sweet and hot as it explored down Steve’s neck, leaving a heady tingling rush in its wake, and Steve moaned, found himself grinding his hips forward despite himself.  Tony’s hand was there, too, a moment later, closing around Steve’s hot, throbbing length, already over-sensitive to the point he nearly cried out at the touch, through the thin shield of his own sweatpants.  Steve felt himself flush to his ears, felt it crawling down the back of his neck, just because his cock was—it was so damn big, and it always felt so crude to him, the big blunt obviousness of it when he was aroused, so huge and ungainly and just—too much, too much for anyone to take, let alone enjoy.  Tony, though, didn’t comment on that, just gripped Steve firmly but gently, his fingers curling around him, and rubbed, up and down, through the thin cloth, until Steve was gasping, moaning, clutching at Tony and gasping into his shoulder because of the pleasure that left him dizzy and reeling.  
  
He found himself bracing himself against the table, gripping it with one hand and bracing himself with his forearm on the other side, just desperately grinding his hips in against Tony because he couldn’t seem to help himself, and he felt so dizzy, hot with pleasure, and God—God, Tony was right there, and he was letting him, just pushing the palm of his hand up against Steve’s hot length now, sucking and laving wet kisses into the skin of his neck, up and down over his throat, until Steve could hear his own moans and gasps wavering out of control, into harsh, wet, needy hitches for breath, each of them a groan in itself.  Tony was clutching at him, too, lifting himself up into Steve’s body, rubbing their bodies together from shoulders to groin with the sweet rolls of his hips, the undulation of his body under Steve, clutching at his shoulders and his hair and the back of his neck, his shoulders.  
  
In a few more seconds Steve would have sworn he’d have been able to come, but then Tony’s hands clenched in his shirt and pushed him back as Tony shoved the chair back, scrambled out of it, practically fell as he slipped down to kneel between Steve’s legs, clumsy and falling all over himself, practically.  He pitched forward so hard Steve had to catch him on his biceps under his arms, just to keep him from braining himself by knocking their heads together, but Tony just pushed him back, framed Steve’s face in his hands and brought him back in for a messy, wet kiss, one that sent Steve’s thoughts scattering off in all directions all over again, then laid one hand on Steve’s chest and pushed him back, hard enough that he let his hands fall, his cock aching, throbbing needily for attention in Tony’s loose sweatpants.  
  
When Steve looked down he saw that he’d already soaked through enough to leave a messy wet patch on Tony’s sweatpants and felt a sudden hot surge of shameful embarrassment, enough that he couldn’t help moving one hand down to cover it, though he was sure Tony had already seen.  It was just that—these were Tony’s pants, and Steve always produced a lot of precome, but it was so—so messy and desperate, to be there already, soaking through like he couldn’t contain himself, and maybe Tony would think he couldn’t control himself at all, that he’d come that easily, even though whenever Steve came, well, he came a lot more, a lot harder than that.  
  
“Oh, God, Steve, that’s so sexy,” Tony gasped, moaned, really, “that’s hot,” and his hand was there a moment later, curling around Steve’s own to mold around the shape of his dick through the sweatpants and stroke, once, twice, until Steve felt himself pitching forward, gasping, biting his lip and groaning helplessly, until it sounded like he was dying, because it practically hurt to be trying to hang onto his control, to not let himself just buck his hips up and drive his hot, heavy, achingly hard cock into Tony’s hand until he came.  “You’re so wet,” Tony moaned, biting his bottom lip, his own lashes fluttering, as his hand skimmed down, the heel of his palm giving delicious friction against the underside of Steve’s cock even as his fingers rubbed at the base in a slow, sweet circle, fingered and pressed at Steve’s balls until he was gasping, bent over and groaning, one hand on Tony’s shoulder digging in just for balance as Tony’s fingers cupped and played over his balls, heel of his hand rubbing up and down Steve’s shaft until Steve was in an agony of pleasure.  “Do you always get that wet?” Tony breathed against Steve’s lips, and Steve felt himself flush hot.  
  
“Yeah,” he said, thickly.  “S-sorry, I mean, about you—your pants, I didn’t mean to—”  
  
“Don’t you dare,” Tony said, “don’t you dare apologize, Rogers, I swear to fucking God—” and a moment later he slammed down on his knees so hard Steve almost winced in sympathy and was reaching for Steve’s hips.  He had his fingers tight on them a moment later, firm and commanding enough that Steve didn’t move, and then he leaned forward and his breath was so hot against Steve’s dick even through the cloth of the thin sweat pants, hot breath almost cold against the wet spot, and Steve couldn’t help the long, low, shuddering groan that ground its way out of him.  A second later Tony’s mouth was on his cock, sucking at it hot even through his own sweatpants, and Steve shoved his good hand in his mouth to muffle his shout, bit down on it through a swimming haze of pleasure.  
  
Tony sucked once, twice, and Steve saw stars; it was just about the best thing he’d ever felt as pleasure slammed through him from that hot, sucking, knowing touch of Tony’s mouth, the way the fabric molded to his dick and had to be just filling Tony’s mouth, the way Tony’s tongue slid up, played at his slit, at his foreskin, even through the fabric, then pulled off, gazing up at Steve through his thick dark lashes, eyes dazed and needy and wanting, with his mouth still wet, strings of saliva still connecting him to the hard heavy line of Steve’s cock tenting the sweatpants obscenely.  
  
“God, Steve, please,” Tony said, and there was a hoarse, husky whine in his voice, a sound of pure need, and it throbbed in Steve’s chest, in his heart, in his ears, “let me suck you off.  I swear I’ll make it good, so good, big guy.  I’m real good, I promise, I—I mean, I haven’t in a while, but it’s just like riding a bike; I’ll make it really, really good for you.  You won’t regret it.”  His voice broke.  “Well, n-not letting me suck you, anyway.  Please, handsome, please.”

  
  
Steve frowned down at him, barely able to think, but aware that he hadn’t like the sound of that at all.  He reached down, curled his good hand around the back of Tony’s neck, and dragged him upward until he could lean in, frame his face with his forearm at the back of his neck and his palm against his jaw, then kissed him, firmly, closing his eyes and leaning into it to prove his point, to make the kiss the most sincere and lingering and full of feeling that he could.  “I won’t regret this, Tony,” he said, and meant it.  “I won’t regret _you_.”  
  
“You’d be the first,” Tony said, all jittery nerves, and that just _hurt_ , deep in Steve’s chest, that Tony actually thought that.  Oh, God, Tony.  He curled his hand a little more firmly against his face, rubbed his thumb along the strong, angular curve of his jaw, and kissed him again, being certain to linger over his own sweet-salty taste in Tony’s mouth, not just because it was as sexy as hell to taste that on Tony’s tongue, but so that Tony would get the point, that Steve would never, could never be ashamed of how they were joined, no matter what it was.  
  
When he pulled away, Tony was panting, looking up at him all wide-eyed and sweet and bewildered and anxious, eyes dark with concern like Steve was actually going to tell him that he’d changed his mind and no way, Jose, Tony, get the hell away from his dick, or something.  “Of course you can suck me if you want to,” Steve said, and it came out all hoarse and husky, breaking and skipping and low.  “I’d be honored.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tony said, mouthed, really, not even really a whisper, and his eyes were so full, so brimming over with feeling, like Steve had just promised him the world, not like Steve had just given him permission to do something for _Steve_ , of all things, and he leaned up, put both hands on Steve’s face and kissed him again, quickly, before he pulled away.  “Do you like quick?” he asked.  “You look like you could use quick.  If you want it slow just yank my hair real hard, okay?  Make me slow down.”  And before Steve could really process that at all, his quick, clever fingers were making short work of the drawstring of Steve’s borrowed pants, and he was easing them down past the bandages wrapped around Steve’s thighs, tracing those gently, so so gently with his fingers, before he reached up and tugged Steve’s briefs down and released his cock.

  
  
It sprang free with a vengeance, and Steve couldn’t help the way he flushed, deep and dark, as a spray of precome spattered across Tony’s cheek, couldn’t help his moan at the pure, intense relief of his cock finally being freed to the air, hot and heavy as it bobbed between them.  Tony swiped at his cheek, at the precome glistening in his beard, and then just smiled.  
  
“Oh, you are gorgeous,” he said, in the sweet, worshipful tone of voice he usually reserved for advanced technology and perfect engineering, which Steve supposed his body basically was, “most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” and then he was leaning in, wrapping his lips around Steve’s cockhead, his hand around his base, and sucking, and Steve gave a hoarse, broken shout and shoved his fist in his own mouth to stop himself.  
  
Steve knew his cock was big.  It had gotten bigger, a _lot_ bigger, after the serum, to the point where it was almost more of a liability than a help when it came to having sex.  He always worried about it, whether it was too big, if his partners would be able to take it, if he’d hurt them or make them uncomfortable, worried about what they might think he’d expect, when he really didn’t expect a damn thing, especially not anything they weren’t willing to give.  
  
Tony sucked him down like he wasn’t fazed one bit, like he’d deep-throated cocks bigger than Steve every damn day of his adult life.  He did it like it was a _privilege_ , not a burden, like he was thrilled to have Steve’s big cock stretching his jaw wide open, and he slurped and suckled at the head, swirled his tongue around it, bobbed his head back and forth along it, still sucking, like he was so damn eager for it, like he couldn’t get enough and couldn’t wait for more.  His eagerness alone would have had tears stinging at Steve’s eyes out of pure, overwhelmed pleasure and emotion, but it wasn’t just that—Tony hadn’t been kidding when he’d said he was good.  There was the way he flattened his tongue against Steve’s underside, the way he played it up over his head, teased at his slit, gave him little eager kitten licks around and under his foreskin, along the sensitive place just under his head, until he’d found the exact places that made Steve writhe and gasp, as quickly as if he’d always known they’d been there, the way he seemed to know just when to suck and how hard and then when to back off and mouth at him wet and soft, and every time he did it it was _better_ , more perfect.  Steve had never had such an expert blowjob, not ever in his life, and he had the distinct impression that Tony was keeping it simple, not even pulling out all the stops he knew.  Part of his mind thought, distractedly, _oh.  So this is what getting a suckjob from a genius is like._   Tony seemed to know what Steve wanted an instant after he started wanting it, and gave it to him with eager, unstinting generosity.

  
  
It didn’t take him long at all to come, only a few passes of that incredible, perfect mouth, and it would have been embarrassing except that Tony had said he was going for quick, and if Steve hadn’t been too lost in helpless, incredible, perfect pleasure to feel embarrassment.  He felt himself crying out, the way he doubled over, clutching at Tony’s hair helplessly with his hand and gasping and gasping, unable to see for the pure bright pleasure of it for long moments, as Tony _swallowed_ , and swallowed, and swallowed.  His whole body felt weak when he finally sat back, and he could hardly catch his breath for the pure, slow, bright pleasure of it.  “Oh,” he said, and it shuddered as it came out of his mouth.  “O-oh.  Tony.”  
  
Tony looked up at him, and his eyes were bright and wet and still so damn full of emotion, and oh, oh God, his mouth was flushed and puffy, sticky and wet and goddamn glistening with Steve’s come as he swallowed again, gulping it down like it tasted like nectar, even licking it off his lips, off the side of his mouth.  Tony blinked, lashes shuddering over his eyes, which were so wide, and Steve wondered dazedly why he looked so hesitant, hesitant and afraid, because hadn’t he just proven that everything he’d said was goddamn true, that he was he was every bit as good as he’d claimed and more?  “Was that good, champ?” he whispered, and oh, God, his voice was hoarse, hoarse and raspy from sucking Steve’s cock.  Oh, God.  
  
“Better than good,” Steve murmured, and curled his hand through Tony’s hair, stroking gently, saw Tony shudder under it.  “Oh, God, Tony, that was spectacular.  You—you’re so amazing, you’re wonderful.  I—I—that was so good.  I don’t really even have words for it.  You weren’t kidding,” he added with a laugh.  
  
Tony smiled, soft and sweet and oddly gentle on his face, and rubbed a hand against his mouth.  “Good,” he said roughly.  “I’m so glad.”  
  
Steve tugged lightly on Tony’s hair.  “C’mere, mister,” he said, heart tight with emotion, with affection.  “Let me kiss you.”  
  
Tony’s eyes widened, and he looked almost surprised, which was so bizarre, but he leaned forward eagerly, practically sobbed out a breathless, trembling breath into Steve’s mouth as Steve kissed him deeply, using his tongue to map out every corner of his mouth, making sure he made it clear that he had absolutely adored everything Tony had just been doing with that gorgeous, perfect mouth of his and how wonderful he had made him feel, palming as warm and affectionate as he could at the curve of Tony’s shoulder.  He let the kiss go on, drag out, go soft and affectionate and warm, poured every bit of feeling he had into it, and when he pulled away, his throat was aching and his heart felt too full, too big for his chest, at how Tony had returned it, pressed into him, shuddered beneath him all over, trembling and soft and eager beneath his mouth.  
  
“That was so good,” Steve assured him, pressing more kisses over Tony’s cheek, along his nose, over his face, against the side of his mouth.  Tony smiled and his lashes flicked softly down over his eyes as he looked off to one side, not quite bashful, and he smiled.  Steve brought his hand up, caressed the side of Tony’s face, kissed his cheek again, the side of his mouth.  “Can I do the same for you?” he asked.  “What do you want?  Just tell me, and I’ll do it for you.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Tony husked out.  “Y-you don’t have to, Steve.”  He pressed the back of one hand to his mouth, and Steve wondered what had gone so suddenly wrong, that Tony’s shoulders were abruptly hunched over as he curled in on himself, that his mouth had twisted like that and his face fallen.  
  
He curled his arm around him, pressed a wet kiss to his temple.  “I want to, sweetheart,” he murmured, and then he reached down, and his hand was on—on Tony’s groin, and he felt the wetness through his jeans, hot and spreading quickly.  Tony flinched back, shoulders hitting hard against Steve’s encircling arm, but Steve didn’t let him go.  Instead, he flicked open Tony’s button, undid his zipper, and slid his fingers inside to feel soft cotton and spreading wet there, too, smell the musky tang of come.  “Oh,” he said, stupidly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Tony said, hoarse and rough, and his voice broke.  He covered his face with one hand.  “I—I didn’t mean to, I swear.  I usually last longer than this.  I promise.  It’s—it’s just been such a long time—I didn’t even realize I was that close—I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to.”  
  
“Did you just,” Steve started.  “Did you just come from giving me a blowjob?”  
  
“Yeah?” Tony said, a little sardonically, like he thought Steve was just setting him up to be laughed at and he was going to do the laughing first come hell or high water.  “What does it look like?  I’m usually not this pathetic, Steve, I swear, I promise I usually last longer than this—”  
  
“Tony,” Steve said soothingly, mouth still pressed warm against his temple.  “I don’t mind.  I don’t—I don’t mind at all.  It’s not pathetic.  I—God, do you have any idea how goddamn sexy that is?”  He couldn’t think straight, his mind swimming with it.  Tony had come just from giving him a blowjob.  A blowjob that had lasted about fifteen _seconds_.  Tony had enjoyed it that much.  Tony had been that turned on.  
  
It felt impossibly erotic.  There, kneeling awkwardly on Tony’s ratty apartment floor, his hand down Tony’s pants feeling the wetness of Tony’s come spreading through his soft underpants because he’d _come_ while sucking Steve off, the taste of himself still on his own lips from Tony’s mouth, was the most erotic moment of Steve’s life up until that point, or at least it felt like it right then.  
  
“Sexy?” Tony said uncertainly, like he still thought it was probably a joke at his expense.  “That I came in two seconds in my pants like a teenager?  Without even being touched?”  
  
“That you enjoyed giving me pleasure that much,” Steve said.  “That you’re—you’re so genuine in your generosity, that your pleasure came that sincerely from mine.”  He slid his fingers down, cupped them gently against Tony’s softening cock, enjoying the feel of it in his hand, the sizable package of him warm and damp through his underwear, through his soft cotton boxer-briefs.  He wished he’d had more of a chance to touch Tony, to learn his cock like Tony had learned his, to stroke him and bring him to his pleasure, but they’d have more chances for that, right?  He curled his other arm around Tony’s shoulders, kissed him deeply and slowly, trying to show him again, through the kiss, how he felt, trying to kiss all thoughts of shame or embarrassment right out of Tony’s head, kissing him until Tony moaned and clutched at him with one hand.  “You’re absolutely beautiful,” he murmured as he pulled away, stroking Tony’s cheek with the knuckles of his one decent hand, though it wasn’t like he was feeling any pain from the other anymore, feeling his eyes sting and his throat go tight and choking as he looked into Tony’s face with just how true that was, stroking his thumb lightly over his chin, brushing his fingers along his jaw.  “Please, don’t ever apologize for your pleasure.  And don’t apologize for bringing me to pleasure, while we’re on the topic.”  He hadn’t lasted very long either, after all.  
  
Tony turned his head, pressed his face in against Steve’s throat, panting damply.  “It’s just,” he said, voice quiet and hoarse, “I wanted to last longer, for you.  All this time and I just—go off like a shot, after all that—that anticipation.  I wanted to do better than that.”  
  
“You did perfect,” Steve said, “Tony, seriously, that is—that is so sexy.  So much sexier than I even imagined, I—I’m flattered.”  He swallowed once, hard.  “And—and you should know that I’m not exactly known for my stamina in bed either,” he added.  “I—I can go for a while, don’t get me wrong, it’s just—it’s just really easy for me to come.  I don’t last long each time.  I can come a lot, though,” he said hurriedly, afraid that Tony would think he was done for the night, now that he’d come off once.  “I can go again,” he added, turning his head to press a kiss along Tony’s jaw, curving the fingers of his injured hand against Tony’s jaw on the other side and rubbing gently, “if you’d like that.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony said softly, then, “ _oh_.”  He raised his head, slid a hand up along Steve’s jaw, pressed a kiss to his chin before he looked up at him, eyes rather wide.  “Would _you_ like that, cupcake?”  
  
Cupcake?  “Well, I wouldn’t mind,” Steve said, feeling himself blush deeply, even his ears going hot.  
  
Tony smiled at that, and nuzzled a soft series of kisses down along Steve’s jaw, turning in his arms and spreading his knees until he was straddling Steve, curling his arms around his neck in a way that made Steve flush pleasantly, this time with the affection of it, out of pleasure and fondness.  He kissed Tony’s lips as Tony shifted, and Tony sighed, let their lips slide together again as he leaned forward into the kiss, his hands sliding through Steve’s hair, tugging gently, even as he eventually leaned back away from the kiss.  His eyes looked as wide and starry, glazed with the intensity of their kisses, as Steve felt.  “Oh, God,” Tony mumbled, and Steve knew how he felt.  He tangled his hand in Tony’s messy curls, stroked the back of his head, and Tony moaned, his eyes fluttering, arched his back so that his groin pressed up against Steve’s waist in what looked like an entirely instinctive motion.  The way that rubbed him against Steve was—was a little dizzying.  
  
“And do you like that?” Steve asked, and Tony panted, looked at him with wide, glazed eyes, sucked on his bottom lip, looking entirely dazed.  “What can I do for you?” Steve asked, stroking his hair again, to be rewarded with another soft moan.  “I want to make you feel good, too.”  
  
Tony bit his bottom lip, not quite meeting his eyes.  He had a habit of worrying it when he was feeling vulnerable, Steve was noticing.  “I—I don’t know,” he said, his voice very hoarse and husky and low.  “I—don’t know if I can come again and—” his voice broke.  “Oh, Steve,” he said, and he sounded overwhelmed.  
  
“Shh,” Steve said, curling his hand gently around the back of Tony’s neck, supporting it, and leaning in to brush another kiss over his lips, gentle but firm enough to be reassuring, to make his point.  “I just want to make you feel good, that’s all.  Let me touch you?  No pressure, or anything.  No reason to worry about coming, or not.  I just want to make you feel good.  That’s all I want.”  
  
“That sounds good,” Tony said, breathless and leaning forward, pressing his face into the side of Steve’s head, against his hair, as if he wanted to hide his expression.  “I—I—you don’t have to, I mean—I—God, sorry I’m such a stammering mess.”  
  
“Hey, you’re not the only one,” Steve said.  He pulled Tony’s head back just a little with his grip at the back of his neck, just so he could smile into his eyes.  “Okay?  Thanks for—for being at least as much of a stammering mess as I am.”  
  
That made Tony smile at least, and his eyes were full and soft with emotion.  “I guess it does go both ways,” he said, softly, and bit his bottom lip again.  
  
Steve leaned in to kiss his cheek, then pulled back, rocked onto his knees, swallowing a hiss of pain as it pulled on his thighs.  “C’mon, mister,” he said, and smiled at Tony again.  “Can I take you to bed?”  He held out his hands, both the one that was whole and the one that was still bandaged.  
  
Tony looked down, looking almost uncertain, but then he raised himself onto his knees, too, and took Steve’s hand, closing his fingers around his wrist instead of gripping the injured one, and let Steve pull him to his feet.  “Remind me to change the bandages on your thighs after this,” he muttered as Steve stepped out of Tony’s sweatpants, and Steve had to laugh, blushing a little as he leaned in to kiss Tony again.  
  
It was tricky to walk backwards toward the bed without letting go of Tony, but Steve couldn’t seem to pull himself away from the hot sweetness of his mouth and the way Tony kissed.  He had his arm around Tony again, and it just felt so—so good, so right, to have Tony in his arms like that, chest to chest, while Tony’s mouth felt hot and right and perfect on his.  He let Tony push him back down onto the bed when they got there, onto his back, swung his legs up as Tony crawled over him until he was on his hands and knees, looking down at him.  He reached up with one hand, pressed it against Steve’s cheek, and it was Steve’s turn to feel a little bashful, to feel himself flushing and biting his lip.  “Well, fella?” he asked.  “Like what you see?”  
  
Tony smiled at that, his eyes soft and warm and brimming with feeling all over again.  “How could I not?” he murmured.  “Steve, sweetheart—I—I almost can’t believe this is real.”  He gave a hoarse little disbelieving laugh.  
  
“It’s not just you,” Steve said, licking his bottom lip as he stared up at him, at Tony’s handsome face, his flushed, bitten lips and sex-tousled hair.  It was so hard to believe that—that Tony had sucked his cock, that that was Tony _right there_ braced over him.  He slid his hands up, under Tony’s shirt, to feel the lean, corded muscles of his stomach, the warmth and texture of his skin, the scratchy-soft hair that covered it, both of them, though the bandaged one couldn’t feel much on the palm, there was still plenty for his fingers to map out and caress.  “C’mere,” he said with a smile, “and let me convince you.”  
  
Tony gave a little laugh and lowered himself down on top of Steve again, his hands sliding up into Steve’s hair as he kissed him again.  Steve let himself groan the way he wanted to in the pure pleasure of it, of having Tony’s weight and warmth pressing him down into the bed, of the touch of his mouth to his, the soft teasing of Tony’s tongue against his own, the way Tony was cradling his head.  Tony rolled his hips down against Steve, and Steve couldn’t help but respond in kind, almost instinctively, gasping at the pleasure that sent through him as they ground together.  
  
“Mmm, yeah,” Tony said after a moment, nipping at Steve’s bottom lip again, and Steve could feel more than see the grin on his face.  “That’s already getting you going again, isn’t it, sugar-pie?”  
  
Sugar-pie? Steve thought, but Tony was tugging on his hair a moment later, tracing a finger down over his nose, against his lips, and Steve was preoccupied with capturing it between his lips, sucking on it until Tony gave a little laugh and leaned in to press soft, wet, dragging kisses over Steve’s jaw and down his neck until Steve was moaning and clutching at Tony’s back with his good hand, making the other one go flat against the bed by his head just so he wouldn’t be tempted to clutch at anything with it.  “Sorry,” he said, breathlessly.  “It happens—I just, like I said, it’s easy—”  
  
“No apologies for that, gorgeous,” Tony said, smiling down at him, and it was such a warm, affectionate, gentle smile that Steve really did find himself relaxing.  
  
“So what’s next?” he asked, and it sounded breathless even in his own ears.  He slid his hand up until Tony’s shirt again, teasing at the trail of hair over his belly until Tony was gasping and squirming, his eyes crinkling up with his laugh, and Steve gripped the back of his shirt in one hand and dragged it off over Tony’s hair.  
  
“Apparently you get my shirt off,” Tony said, smiling a little, though his eyes flicked down at his chest in a way that looked more than a little self-conscious.  
  
“I like what I see, too, handsome,” Steve whispered, tracing a finger up along the line of darker, thicker hair in the center of Tony’s chest, slid it over to circle it around one nipple just to see if Tony shivered—and he did, gasping a little.  Instead of continuing to tease there, though, he slid his fingers up over Tony’s shoulder, stroked them gently over his throat.  “You’re beautiful, just like I said.”  
  
Tony smiled down at him, bracing himself on one arm.  “You’re—you’re too generous,” he said, with a wry little laugh.  “I haven’t exactly been keeping myself in condition.  I’m a mess.  Now I know you’re biased.”  
  
“Honest,” Steve corrected.  “I’m telling you how I see it.”  He leaned up and in, pressed kisses along the line of Tony’s jaw, down along his throat, the side of his neck, to drag them slow and wet over his shoulders, down his collarbones, over his chest, even as he went back to tease at and tug at Tony’s nipple with one hand.  The way it had Tony flushing above him, his body heating up against Steve’s, the way he gasped and groaned and writhed against Steve and the way it rubbed them together was addictive, and Steve kept at it, caressing Tony’s chest and back, playing with his nipples with his tongue and teeth and fingers, until Tony let him roll him over until Tony was on his back with Steve on top of him, gasping and groaning, his eyes mostly closed.  Steve ground their erections together for a long moment, then ducked his head down and curled his hand around Tony’s jaw, looking at him seriously until Tony’s eyes fluttered back open and he looked dazedly up at Steve, licking his bottom lip.  
  
Only then did Steve lean in and kiss him, more deeply this time.  Tony clutched at Steve’s shoulders, moaning into the kiss, and they must have stayed like that for a long time, all over again.  It was so easy to get caught up in kissing Tony and just lose track of time completely in the perfect pleasure of it.  
  
When they finally pulled away, Steve caressed Tony’s face with his hand, kissed down his neck again, determined to make Tony feel as good as he’d made him feel, and went back to kissing and caressing down his chest, over his ribs, down over his thighs, pushing Tony’s pants off as he did.  Tony sucked in his breath and shuddered a bit, but Steve didn’t pay his cock too much attention, aside from kissing Tony’s thighs all around it, letting his face rub against it through Tony’s underwear, and pressed a kiss to the base before he got back to caressing and worshipping Tony’s thighs—because Tony’s thighs were muscular, beautiful and thick and rounded even if he was thinner than Steve had gotten used to, and so, so worth the attention.  He thought Tony was enjoying it, too, the way he was gasping and moaning, one hand in his mouth to muffle his moans, the other twisted tight in Steve’s hair.  Steve sucked soft wet bites into the plush, warm muscles of those thighs, played his tongue along the curves that led up into Tony’s hips, sucked on his hip bones and dragged his tongue along the hollows above and below them, left kisses around Tony’s navel until he was squirming, then kissed his way back down again, only dragging his lips idly over the tight heat that was Tony’s underwear covered groin.  
  
This was more like it; like this he was learning that Tony shivered and moaned high-pitched at attention to his thighs and his nipples, whimpered as Steve massaged at his thighs with one hand, his cock thickening and hardening just a bit as Steve kept at it, pressed his body to his so that Tony could feel him all over and stroked over his skin and kissed up and down every inch of his torso and thighs and shoulders.  When he looked up again, finally, Tony’s eyes were glazing, unseeing and a little wet, and he was gasping, panting for breath.  
  
Steve remembered how Tony had reacted like it had been months since anyone had even really touched him with affection when he’d first got there, and made his hand gentler, slid it up along Tony’s side to curl around his fingers, squeeze their hands together.  Tony gave a gasping, shocked sounding drag of breath, and his gaze stuttered down to fix on Steve’s.  
  
Steve stroked his thumb over the back of Tony’s hand.  “How do you like it?” he asked, and his voice shocked even him by how hoarse and raspy and low it sounded when it left his mouth.  “Just tell me what you like and I’ll do it for you, Tony, I promise.”  
  
Tony flushed.  “Don’t—don’t say things like that, slugger,” he said quickly, looking away.  “You don’t know what I’ll say.”  
  
“I know you’d never want me to do anything I hated, so why worry about it?” Steve asked, and pressed his mouth in a kiss to Tony’s knuckles.  
  
Tony gave a shuddering little wrench for breath.  “I—I—yeah,” he said unsteadily.  “Yeah, I guess so.”  
  
“So what do you like?” Steve asked, releasing his hand to stroke up and down his forearm as he went back to pressing soft kisses to Tony’s hard, tight belly, his taut, trembling thighs.  
  
“Oh, God, Steve,” Tony said, his head tipping back.  His hand flailed out again, ended up petting softly through Steve’s hair, twining so gently in the strands Steve almost couldn’t believe it.  “I—you, you’re doing it, honey,” he said low and breathless and dragging out slow, like he could hardly think.  “Feel so—so good, I—I—”  
  
Steve nuzzled in against the slope of Tony’s abdominal muscle, rubbed his cheek there, the soft wet of his own damp mouth.  “Can I touch your cock now, Tony?” he asked.  “Would you mind?  Are you too sensitive?”  
  
“N-no,” Tony managed after a moment.  “I’m fine.  I—o-oh . . .”  The last syllable was almost dragged out of him, wavering, as Steve tugged his boxer-briefs down quickly, curled his hand around Tony’s cock and gave it a slow, easy stroke.  He could see it as Tony’s toes curled, and he arched up into it, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, just about, the way that Tony’s eyes squeezed shut, and he pushed his own hand back into his mouth again like he was too overwhelmed for words just at that much pleasure.  
  
Steve wanted to make that much pleasure feel normal to him, routine, not such a shocking, overwhelming surprise.  He stroked Tony’s cock gently, not sure if he wanted more to look at Tony’s enraptured, overcome face, looking almost like he was in pain, like a saint seeing visions (his beautiful martyr, Steve thought ruefully, his St. Sebastian, that was what he looked like), or at the slide of his cock through Steve’s fist, how it looked very flushed and pink against the dark dusky flush of Tony’s cock, dark and red like dark sweet cherries against Steve’s pinker, lighter skin.  Steve couldn’t resist, after a moment, had to tilt Tony’s cock up to get a better view of it, and God, he was pretty—perfectly proportioned in his grip, longer than he was thick, with a gorgeous curve to his shaft that made Steve think all kinds of gloriously filthy thoughts, circumcised, which was different from Steve, but made the beautiful proportions of him stand out, looking oddly bare and naked in a way that, on Tony at least, struck Steve as desperately erotic, the vulnerable wet head of his needy, bobbing cock all bare and exposed to Steve’s gaze without any of that protective skin to cover it, like Tony’s cock couldn’t hide anything from him.  “Gorgeous,” Steve breathed, and meant every word.  “You’re gorgeous, Tony.  You’re so beautiful.  I can’t get over it.”  
  
“That’s—that’s my line,” Tony choked out, and it sounded like it was through a thick throat, a wry smile just barely tugging at one side of his mouth before it faded again on another hitching gasp as Steve stroked him.  
  
“Thank you,” Steve told him, and ducked his head to suck a kiss against Tony’s shoulder.  He knew he was good-looking, but if you asked him, he had nothing on Tony.  It was kind of funny to think that Tony might think the opposite.  He stretched himself out, balancing with his forearm on that side, the bad side, and angling his weight off his thighs, to keep stroking Tony with one hand.  He slid a finger from Tony’s base up to his cockhead, swirled it around.  “You’ve got the prettiest prick I’ve ever seen, you know?” he said, and he meant it.  
  
Tony choked.  “Oh, please,” Tony said.  “I—it’s—you can’t—I mean, yours—”  
  
“I like yours,” Steve told him firmly.  He wished his other hand wasn’t hurt, so he could hold Tony and stroke his cock at the same time.  He compromised by curling his fingers on his injured hand inward, so he could curl them through Tony’s hair and stroke, and Tony shivered, gave a soft little moan.  
  
“Well, if you say so,” Tony said with a little smile after a moment, “but I’m gonna assume it’s because you’re, um, you’re a little biased.”  
  
Steve smiled back, made a show of leaning in and pressing his lips to Tony’s ear to whisper, ostentatiously, “Well, I might be, just a little bit, fella.”  He curled his hand over Tony’s cockhead, feeling the warm slide of it, the smearing wet of his precome against Steve’s palm, how hot and needy the tip of him felt there against Steve’s hand, and Tony gave a harsh little moan, trembled all over.  “I like you an awful lot.”  
  
“I like you, too, sweetheart,” Tony said, after a moment of trembling, and reached up, curled his arms around Steve, stroking over his shoulders and back, and rolled over to press his face into Steve’s shoulder, against his neck.  He pressed a soft little kiss there and Steve sighed in pleasure, sucked one into the hollow of his throat and Steve knew his hand faltered, a little, on Tony’s cock as he moaned.  “I like everything about you, from that beautiful blush you get into your ears, down your neck, and over your hips, to the dip of your spine, the curl of your toes, the hang of that big beautiful uncut cock of yours.  You’re so _big_ , Steve.”  
  
Steve flushed and pressed his face into Tony’s shoulder, still idly stroking his cock in a way that left his fingers sticky and wet and warm and Tony giving soft reedy little moans against him.  “You had to know that,” he said.  “I can’t hide it, really.”  
  
“Your uniform does a pretty good job,” Tony said, and Steve gasped, jerked like a live wire as his fingers skimmed down, squeezed gently around the circumference of Steve’s big blunt cockhead, before rocking his palm gently against the already hot, red, needy, leaking tip.  
  
“A-ah, ah,” Steve said.  He was sensitive there, more than he’d realized, but even more than that, the blood rushing to his cock, stiffening it up, the desire, left him dizzy.  The pleasure, the hot rush of blood, left him on the verge of pain.  “Oh.”  
  
“Shh,” Tony said, and slid the heel of his hand down Steve’s shaft, curled his fingers around and started to stroke him gently.  Steve forgot all about what he was doing with Tony’s cock for a moment and just curled his fingers into his hair and held him close with his hand at his hip and moaned.  
  
“I—you—because you worked on it,” he said, because he keenly remembered the embarrassing day when Tony had measured him, early on in the mansion, and he’d felt hyper-aware of his own body, of Tony’s breath on the back of his neck, humiliatingly conscious of the huge size of his cock.  God, how had he not put together that he was embarrassed because he was interested in Tony?  He’d held as still as he could and breathed in Tony’s scent just to smell his cologne.  
  
Tony gave a little chuckle.  “As a matter of fact, I did know the heat you were packing, sugar cookie,” he said, squeezing Steve’s cock gently.  “But—you know—I haven’t seen it in the flesh in a while, so to speak, lovely, and you were bigger than I think I remembered.  Isn’t that always the way?”  
  
Steve swallowed, bit back a helpless moan, tried not to rock his hips forward too obviously, be too crude or juvenile about the way he was chasing Tony’s hand.  He bit his bottom lip.  “It’s, not, um,” he said.  “It’s not too big?  Awkward or—or intimidating?  I don’t expect anything, Tony, I promise—you already blew me, and that was—God, that was spectacular,” he moaned just remembering it.  “O-oh.  I promise, you don’t have to do anything else; I don’t expect anything in p-particular.”  
  
“It’s not too big,” Tony said firmly.  “I mean, yeah, you’re huge, babydoll; you’ve got a fucking sequoia down there, you know that.  But it’s not _too_ big.  Not to me.  You’re a big guy, and it’s so pretty on you.  It looks right on you.  You’re beautiful.  It excites me to see your size, and I want you to know and believe that, you hear me?  God, wow, a cock this huge and you’re already hard again—that serum is something else.”  He was stroking Steve almost gently, sweetly, careful in the way he circled the head with his fingers, petting it gently, playing with his foreskin, and Steve knew he was blurting out little spurts of precome every time Tony tugged it up and down.  “I bet you had a smaller cock before, huh?  Can’t imagine this big fella on such a skinny guy.  You still have such narrow hips.  Was this kind of a shock, stud muffin?”  
  
Steve felt himself flush dark, half at the teasing nickname, half at the question and the way Tony was still stroking him, dragging his palm gently on his cock, over the leaky wet head, already dripping and wet with Steve’s copious precome.  “Y-yeah,” he said, suddenly wondering if Tony would have even looked at him before the serum in a way that was a little painful, even though he’d wondered if about every one of his lovers since he’d gotten it.  “This is—it got bigger.  Especially um, around?  I was a lot, um, slimmer, I guess, before the serum.”  
  
“Yeah, I bet,” Tony breathed in his ear.  “Look at that goddamn width you’ve got, slugger.”  He squeezed his hand against the base.  “I can hardly get my whole hand around you, you’re so big and girthy, and I don’t have small hands exactly, do I?”  Steve just moaned, clutching at Tony with one hand, feeling his eyes rolling back desperately in his head, his mouth embarrassingly wet as he groaned.  “And you’re so sensitive,” Tony added, stroking Steve’s hair with his other hand.  “You’re so sensitive all over, aren’t you, sweetheart?  Just look at you.  The slightest touch.”  His finger slid in, past Steve’s foreskin, and the pad of it rubbed against the sensitive tip of Steve’s cockhead, around his slit, and he cried out, felt his eyes stinging as he arched up, almost came just at that, far too soon, so that the peak of pleasure almost hurt, burning along sensitized nerve-endings with so much pleasure it felt like too much.  “Shh, shh, I’ve gotcha, big boy,” Tony murmured against his ear, curling his fingers back into Steve’s hair and holding him close around the shoulders, even as he tugged Steve’s foreskin down to gently smooth his fingers over the sticky wet head, rocking as they closed over it, all gentle, but so intense on Steve’s sensitive cockhead that it left him gasping, legs trembling and shivering all over, eyes stinging.  He was dripping like a faucet when Tony finally pulled away with a gentle touch of his fingers to that sensitive spot, and he knew it.  “So big and so sensitive,” Tony murmured.  “Most sensitive cockhead I’ve ever seen on a man, hot stuff.”  
  
Steve just moaned, curled his legs up, spread instinctively, almost whimpering.  The serum hadn’t left him any options, he wanted to say.  The doctor hadn’t asked if he wanted to be so shudderingly sensitive to a touch, so absolutely wrecked by the smallest amount of pleasure, able to come so damn easily—Dr. Erskine hadn’t warned him, either.  Maybe he hadn’t known it would happen to him like that.  Of course, he was uncut, and that made his cockhead more sensitive, too, hidden as it usually was by that protective covering of skin.  But he couldn’t say that, he was too far gone on the pleasure, and practically all he could think about was Tony, Tony’s touch, Tony’s warm breath along his jaw, at his ear, against his cheek.  
  
Tony left off teasing his cockhead, probably able to tell Steve wouldn’t be able to take much more without coming suddenly and almost painfully, curled his hand around Steve’s cock again instead and started giving him firm, even strokes, tugging his foreskin up and down with it.  “God, I love your cock,” he murmured against Steve’s jaw, kissing him there with a wet, soft press of lips, and Steve felt a strange, tingling rush of pleasure that at least it wasn’t offputting.  This big, perfect body—at least it could be pleasing.  
  
He tucked his head in against Tony’s shoulder and breathed unevenly, feeling how he was groaning on every breath and his mouth was a little wet.  “How—how do you want me?” he asked, stumbling over the words and flushing, feeling like an inarticulate fool.  “You can have—you can have anything, anything you want.  Anything, Tony, just tell me.  I’d, I’d, I’d do anything for you.”  It was so true, he realized with a shuddering breath of emotion that pulled tight in his gut.  It was so true in so many ways.  
  
“So generous, sweetheart,” Tony murmured, leaving a gentle kiss on his shoulder.  “Well, I think I’d like you bare, tiger, is that all right?  I want to see you.”  
  
“S-sure,” Steve stuttered, and rolled on his back to do it.  Tony helped him, helped him pull his briefs, lopsided and bunched up around his knees, all the way off, helped him with his shirt, until Tony had him lying on his back again and was pressing wet, sucking kisses up and down over his chest, stroking his body with gentle scratches of his nails down over his skin.  He curled his tongue against one of Steve’s nipples and Steve cried out, grabbed at his hair, white stars of pleasure exploding behind his eyes as it went straight to his cock like it was attached with an invisible string.  
  
“I thought you might be sensitive,” Tony murmured against the sensitive little nub, breath feathering over it hot and damp as he spoke, and Steve trembled under him.  “You thought to play with mine, and that usually only occurs to men who have sensitivity in them.  That’s gorgeous, Steve.  You’re beautiful.”  
  
“You are, too,” Steve murmured breathlessly.  He was sure tears were standing in his eyes, from emotion, from overwhelmed pleasure, as Tony tugged at the other one gently with his fingers, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, and Steve found himself rolling his hips, writhing and arching between the sensations on each side, but he didn’t worry about it.  He felt, for the moment at least, totally safe, at home with the idea that Tony wouldn’t mock him or judge him.  
  
“Sweet and generous, too,” Tony said warmly, “God, a perfect gentleman, aren’t you, peaches?”  
  
Steve felt himself flush at the nickname, probably flush all the way down to the globes of his rear—he could feel the flush over his thighs so that his injuries prickled, but it was at least half a flush of pleasure, because for whatever reason it felt so good to have Tony call him those things.  Tony was still tugging at his nipples, thumbing at them gently, and it was so distracting.  “I—I try,” he said helplessly.  “I want to show you a good time, Tony.  I—what can I do?” he felt suddenly oddly inexperienced, in a way he hadn’t felt since the beginning of his relationship with Bernie, when she’d always been suggesting stuff in bed he’d never imagined before.  He lifted a hand and stroked it over Tony’s back, the beautiful dip in it, feeling the warmth of his skin, even as Tony made him moan and his toes curl with his wonderful attention to his nipples.  
  
“Well,” Tony said, sounding thoughtful, toying gently, almost absently, with Steve’s nipple in a way that made him tremble all the way down to his toes.  “Just tell me if I’m being too invasive, sweetheart, if you don’t want to talk about this, all right?”  
  
He waited until Steve nodded, uncertainly.  “All right,” he said.  His whole body felt sensitized, hot, attuned to Tony’s skin.  
  
“But I’m curious what you liked before the serum,” Tony murmured, one hand coming up gently to press a lock of tousled hair back out of Steve’s eyes, curling in against his temple, his skin, in a gentle gesture of a caress that had Steve panting with emotion, pressing his face into Tony’s hand and closing his eyes.  “Did you still like to have your nipples played with?  You probably weren’t as sensitive.  Where did you like to be touched?”  
  
It was a sweet question, posed in a caring, soft, warm tone of voice, and Steve had actually never been asked that question before in his life.  A lot of his partners hadn’t known to ask it, and—but of course Tony knew.  Tony knew everything about him.  Tony was _Iron Man_ , and Steve moaned, overcome with the knowledge that he was doing this with his beautiful, wonderful friend.  “I—I—” he stuttered.  “I didn’t—didn’t um, see a lot of action, to be honest, but when I—did it to myself, I mean.  I wasn’t sure if a fella was supposed to play with his nipples to get off but I, I, I always did.  I needed something to work me up slow because, um, it wasn’t so easy to come in those days?”  God, he could still remember it, the way he’d tugged on his nipples with his other hand on his cock just to get himself hard, the way after he was nearly there he’d get both hands tugging on the hard, needy little nubs because his cock could deflate too easy if he got hard too fast, if he pushed it, and playing with his nipples was always a more surefire way to get himself to the edge than tugging at his cock like he heard worked for most fellas.  He still usually played with his nipples, tugged at them, idly if nothing else, every time he got himself off.  “They’ve, they’ve always been sensitive,” he finished on a whine as Tony pinched them tightly and he jerked up into the touch.  
  
“Gorgeous, sweetheart,” Tony murmured.  “I see some things don’t change, huh?”  
  
“They’re more sensitive now,” Steve said, with a rueful, breathless smile up at Tony.  There was a heavy lock of hair tangled over Tony’s forehead, into his eyes, and he wanted to reach up to brush it away, but it took him a few seconds to remember how to move with Tony playing and tugging at his nipples like that.  
  
“Hot little buttons of pleasure for you?” Tony said, but it was so warm and fond that Steve moaned more at that than the words, writhed again, arching up, feeling his cock slapping obscenely against his belly as he did.  
  
“S-somethin’ like that,” he managed to slur out.  After a second, he thought enough to reach up with his decent hand, push that hair out of Tony’s eyes, behind his ear.  Tony smiled at him when he did it, turned his head to press his cheek into the palm of Steve’s hand, left a kiss against the heel of it, lashes flicking down to cover his eyes, and Steve felt another tight, hot squeeze of emotion, of pure love and a throbbing, deep, absolute fondness, in his chest.  
  
Tony splayed out his fingers, rubbed in slow concentric circles around Steve’s areolas, moving outward, leaving Steve a trembling wreck, until he returned to petting his nipples, throbbing and hot now, aching with pleasure, his cock leaking and aching at the tip like Tony was stroking it, stroking them with feather-light touches that left Steve moaning, aching for more and yet shivering with the perfection of it, moaning and leaking until he could feel his precome overflowing his belly-button and leaking down his sides.  He felt like a mess, but Tony didn’t seem to mind.  He was a tangled up mess of pleasure and sensation and need when Tony finally squeezed (making Steve jerk) and moved his fingers away, leaned down to press a gentle kiss to first one aching, tightly erect nipple, then the other, warmth breath making him ache and want to shout, to cry out, giving a desperate huff of breath of his own, before he pulled away.  
  
“What else did you like?” Tony asked.  “Your cock wasn’t as sensitive, right?  Did you jerk it rough?”  
  
Steve nodded, unsteadily.  How did he _know_ that?  Was he just guessing?  Was it an educated guess, based on what he knew about Steve already?  He’d always gotten impatient with himself, before, wished he could just come easily, like the other guys all seemed to.  “Y-yeah,” he said unsteadily.  “I—I was real rough with myself.  It—it was always a little hard, a little painful anyway, what with the asthma I’d always end up panting for breath, straining for it, so I just, um, I guess I leaned into the pain.”  
  
“Do you still like pain, sweetheart?” Tony asked, gently, and Steve felt himself flush, bright red, all over, and knew his cock had betrayed him utterly, the way it had jumped against his belly, slapped obscenely loud against his skin, pulsing out a heavy spurt of precome just at the question.  
  
“Um,” he said, took a breath and blew it out, unsteadily, “Y-yeah.  But, um, not tonight?  Not too much, anyway, a—a little is always good.  But I’m so—I just want to be with you, tonight, anyway, I—”  
  
Tony’s eyes softened, the skin around them tightening with emotion, and he leaned down, pressed a kiss into Steve’s mouth.  “Me too,” he breathed.  “We’ll keep it simple tonight, huh?  Nothing too kinky or out there.  I’m feeling like neither of us could handle that.”  
  
“You’re right,” Steve said, unsteadily.  “I’m already so—so gone on you, just—just you, being with you, Tony, I love you.”  
  
Tony took a sharp, unsteady breath, and Steve could see how his eyes glittered with tears.  He reached up, caressed Tony’s cheek, let his thumb slide, linger over his cheekbone.  “I love you,” he breathed, hearing the words in his own voice, wonderingly.  They sounded so right.  
  
Tony whimpered, almost, turned his head into Steve’s hand and closed his eyes, panting unsteadily himself now, almost like he’d been running a marathon.  “S-Steve,” he said desperately.  “Steve—oh, oh, sweetheart, I—I—”  
  
“Shhh,” Steve said, and drew him down onto his chest with that one hand, raising the other to stroke his fingers gently through Tony’s hair again, rubbing his back with the other.  “Shh, I’ve gotcha.  You know how good you feel, right here?”  
  
Tony clutched at him, buried his face in his neck.  “God, you’re so good to me,” he said, and his voice was breathy wet and thick with tears, though Steve couldn’t feel any on his face against his neck.  
  
“I could just hold you forever,” Steve told him, still stroking his back.  “You fit so perfect against me, right here, like it was meant to be.”  
  
Tony’s arms squeezed tight around him, like he never wanted to let go.  “You’re so warm,” he said wonderingly, against Steve’s skin, like he couldn’t quite believe it, either.  He was lying between Steve’s legs in the bed, narrow as it was, and it felt perfect.  
  
“All for you,” Steve mumbled, a little self-consciously, aware of what a silly, romantic sentiment it was.  _My blood is pumping hot just for you, my heart is beating just to keep you warm with it, my metabolism is running hot just because you’re here._   It always ran hot, of course, hot and quick, but that wasn’t how it felt just then.  His cock ached, hot and wet, against Tony’s belly, even as he squeezed his legs against Tony’s hips and held him close, but he didn’t let himself focus on it.  _You get erections all the time, Rogers,_ Steve told himself firmly, _and you never focus on them then, either.  Just wait.  Tony will show you a good time.  Hold him now._  
  
“Is that so,” Tony mumbled after a moment.  He pressed a kiss to Steve’s neck, and his hands came down, stroked at his sides, down over his hips.  “Well, I know _this_ is for me.”  His hand slid between them, curled hot and firm around Steve’s heavy, needy, throbbing length, and pulled up until Steve was whining, whimpering.  “God, you’re so wet,” Tony said, still wondering, and sat up a little, leaving Steve shuddering, feeling almost cold without his warmth, even though he was still leaning over him, propping himself on one arm.  Steve felt himself flush even as a little more precome leaked out of him over Tony’s fingers.  “No, don’t do that,” Tony said, smiling a little down into his eyes.  “You’re beautiful; it’s gorgeous, don’t get self-conscious.”  
  
“Easier said than done,” Steve breathed out on a huff, and Tony laughed a little, fondly, leaned down to nuzzle kisses into his shoulder, against his neck, still tugging and stroking gently at his cock.  Steve could feel how close he was, himself, and tried to hold himself back, clenching his fists into the sheets.  
  
“Yeah, that’s true,” Tony said.  His hand was stroking so, so gently along Steve’s cock, curled softly around the shaft, and it made Steve shiver all the way down to his toes. “Sorry, it’s a habit with me—to talk a lot, to tell my partners what I’m liking.  If it’s too much I can try to back off.”  
  
“No,” Steve said instantly, feeling himself flush at how quickly he’d said it.  “No.  I love it, Tony.  Don’t mind me, I just blush.  I blush all the time.  I might be feeling a little self-conscious but—but I don’t mind it.”  
  
“Okay,” Tony breathed, stroking gently over Steve’s jaw, his lips, with his fingers, until Steve pressed soft, eager kisses to them.  “As long as you don’t mind.”  
  
“I don’t,” Steve said, then whimpered again as Tony’s hand tightened, felt his head tip back, his body arch up into it.  
  
“I bet you’re close again,” Tony said.  “Are you close again, stud?”  
  
“Y-yeah,” Steve said, and it came out on a whimper.  
  
“Tell me,” Tony said.  “When you were a young man—before the serum, I mean—did you ever—” he licked his own fingers, getting them dripping and sloppy, sucking on them, and Steve realized what he was going to do a second before Tony’s thumb was pressing tight into the sweet, sensitive spot behind Steve’s heavy balls, before his hole, and his fingers were circling the tight furled muscle of Steve’s hole, pressing in against it in a way that had Steve jerking, shouting until he turned his head to muffle it in the coverlet.  
  
“O-oh, oh,” he groaned.  “Tony.”  
  
“Sensitive there, too, I see,” Tony said, his fingers rocking gently against that place, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin behind Steve’s balls, thumb and fingers both circling in slow, dragging spirals that had Steve shaking.  He _was_ sensitive there; Tony was right, and all of his girlfriends had loved to take him apart with anal play.  
  
“Y-yes, sir,” he whimpered, gasping, because it was true.  Not every time, but most of them, he’d had his fingers pressed inside himself when he got off, and he’d known it wasn’t quite—the thing most fellas did, to play with themselves back there, to crook two fingers inside to help their dicks along, but it had felt so good, so even though he’d felt a little perverted for it at first, he’d never stopped.  
  
“Perfect,” Tony breathed.  His fingers were sticky with his saliva against Steve’s hole, and it felt erotic and yes, perfect.  Steve was trembling all over.  “I’ve got such an image of you, peaches, playing with your nipples with your old-fashioned undies down around your knees, shirt rucked up, skinny chest flushed red all over, down to your hips, biting your lip, I bet, because you couldn’t afford to cry out, thin walls like that, fingers curled deep inside your own asshole, not even touching your cock because you’re too caught up in the rest of it.  That about right, sweetie-pie?”  
  
Steve moaned, groaning, feeling hot sweat on his forehead, dripping down his neck and over his throbbing pectorals, teasing at the hot aching points of need that were his erect, sensitized nipples.  The image Tony was painting was incredibly accurate, brought him back vividly to those days, his nipple throbbing as if he had his hand on it now, hole clenching tight as if to remind him how good something inside it would feel.  “Yes, yes, Tony, yes,” he felt himself groan out as if from far away.  He got his hand up, tugged at his own nipple, just because he couldn’t help it, felt himself groan unsteadily and arch up, even as Tony pushed his fingers in tighter against his hole.  
  
“Shh, honey, let it go, let it happen,” Tony murmured.  “Keep playing with your nipple, that’s it, stallion.  Squeeze it tight like a good boy—that’s it, there you go.”  When Steve obeyed it pushed him even closer to the edge, a spasm of hot bright sensation peaking in his nipple, down to his cock again like it was being tugged on by that invisible string, so hot and bright Steve couldn’t even see for the pleasure.  
  
He was so close already, teetering on the edge, and when Tony’s finger slipped into him, sticky and tacky with spit but otherwise dry, just enough for the tiniest bit of burn, and Tony pressed it in, in and in, decisively, he felt the slow shudder of orgasm start in his toes, hot in his thighs, like it had back before the serum, and slowly sweep up and over his cock, hot all through his chest.  He sucked in his breath, only to choke on it, strangled, as Tony leaned in and got his mouth over the tip of his cock, sucking decisively just as Steve felt himself start to come, jerking and spurting with his orgasm and instantly lost in the sensations, the pleasure, the tight hot suction of Tony’s mouth, the bruising grip he had on his own nipple as his fingers clamped down, the feeling of Tony’s finger tucked up firm and invasive and perfect inside his body, until he was crying out, twisting in the bed and feeling hot and broken, shattered and tight all over his skin like he’d fly apart from the sensations of it.  
  
When he finally came down he knew there were tears in his eyes, soaking into the sides of his temples, and wasn’t at all surprised.  The world was a hazy blur behind the tears, and Tony was still sucking gently at his cock, sliding his tongue over the head, sending pleasure shuddering, trembling through Steve until every inch of his skin felt hot, hot and tingling and sensitized.  He moaned, felt his voice breaking, slid his hand down to curl it in Tony’s hair, softly, couldn’t help it, and only then did Tony pull away, with both his finger and his mouth, stroking gently over Steve’s trembling, sensitive thighs, leaning up to press a soft kiss to Steve’s mouth (he tasted like Steve, sweet and salty, the musky tang of his come, and Steve shuddered with that), against the wetness at the sides of his eyes.  “Tears for me, sweetheart?” he murmured.  “You okay there, Steve-o, honey pie?”  
  
“F-fine,” Steve managed to husk out, and oh, God, his voice was hoarse and wrecked.  “Just.  It’s just.  Intense.  So.  So sensitive.  That’s, that’s all.  It was good.  Oh, God, Tony, it was so good.”  
  
“That’s perfect,” Tony said hoarsely, “that’s just what I want to hear.”  He slid one leg between Steve’s, kind of half straddling him, as he lay down over him chest to chest again, curling both hands around his shoulders, stroking his neck, his hair, his cheeks and jaw and face, until Steve was a trembling wreck, slowly coming down, just letting Tony’s touch soothe him until he felt boneless and limp in his post-orgasmic haze, floating and light and tingling all over, almost fizzy under his skin.  His hand loosened in Tony’s hair until it was limp.  Tony didn’t seem to get impatient, just lay there, touching him all over.  Eventually he got one arm under Steve’s head and stroked the other over his shoulder, gently, fingertips rocking gently into the sensitive skin, but not demanding, not pushing.  
  
“God, Tony, that was so good,” Steve finally managed again, hazily.  He reached up, captured Tony’s hand in his, squeezed it as he held it to his shoulder.  “I—I—but you didn’t come again.”  
  
“A-okay with me, slugger,” Tony said, and bit his bottom lip, looking up at Steve through his eyes in a way that was unfairly sweet, unfairly endearing.  “I just wanted to see you feeling good again.  I wanted to concentrate on that.  It—it was really wonderful, believe me.  Don’t feel like I’m being deprived here.”  
  
“How do you know just how to touch me?” Steve asked wonderingly.  
  
“Well, you’re all sweet and sensitive,” Tony said, smiling down at him, teasing a finger gently around his nipple until Steve gasped out a breath, shuddering down to his toes, then moved it up again to stroke his fingers gently over his shoulder.  “I know that, right?  So I just—use what I know about you and work from there.  You’re so wonderfully responsive, cherry pie.  Do you get overstimulated pretty easily?”  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, sheepish, a little self-conscious.  He’d had partners before who’d get a little impatient—not their fault, it was just hard for a lady, when she was close and Steve had come _again_ and was so sensitive it was painful to go on.  Sharon had always been happy to play to Steve’s desire for pain, would just make him keep thrusting until there were tears in his eyes and he was hard again, just so she could come around him, biting her lip and staring up at him with her hand on her clit moving fast as she watched him suffer with the pain of his oversensitive cock inside her, head down as he moaned and his sweat and tears started to spatter across her breasts—but Sharon had always gotten why he liked it, to be pushed, to be hurt, she’d always understood that.  Rachel had been more frustrated, because she’d never wanted to hurt him, never understood why someone would want to be hurt in bed at all, really, and always having to have Steve resort to his hand or his mouth after he’d been so close to getting her there with his cock, practically every time, had worn on her.  No wonder she’d had such a thing for wearing a strap-on, riding it as she fucked Steve into next week.  
  
None of that had anything to do with him being here with Tony, now, of course, it was just—he hoped Tony wouldn’t mind how quickly he got overstimulated, how often he came or his stamina issues.  But he was sure that even if it got on Tony’s nerves like it had Rachel’s, they could work it out.  They were creative fellas.  Tony was a genius, and seemed so patient and warm and wonderful and kind in bed so far.  And Steve liked to be fucked.  He’d love it if Tony wanted to fuck him, oh God.    
  
He wondered what Tony liked.  Either would be fine for him—to feel Tony inside him, or to be inside Tony; God, he wanted that.  He seemed like he’d be so sweet for Steve’s cock inside him, if he let him fuck him, but of course, Steve was so damn big, it was up to Tony if he wanted that.  He’d understand if he didn’t.  The last thing he wanted was to hurt him.  Tony was so willing to put his mouth on him, and that was more than he’d ever expected; he thought he could live off just the touch of Tony’s mouth to his cock alone, it was so good.  He sucked him so perfect.  
  
He raised a hand, pet hair off of Tony’s face again, let it curl to support his jaw, against his neck.  “Let me do something for you, this time,” he said.  “You don’t have to come.  I just want to be the one making you feel good.”  
  
Tony’s face tightened with emotion, and he smiled.  “You already have been, sunshine,” he said, and his voice was so hoarse and tight and husky and wet.  “Trust me.”  
  
Sunshine.  That was—that was so sweet.  Steve liked that.  He liked that a lot.  
  
He stroked his hand gently back over Tony’s cheek, along his neck.  “Well, then, more,” he said, and smiled up at him.  “You’re wonderful.  I want to make you feel just as wonderful.”  
  
Tony gave a hoarse little sniff, turned his head away and rubbed the heel of his hand into one eye.  “Oh, Steve,” he said.  “You’ll undo me.  I—I don’t know what to say when you say stuff like that.”  
  
“That’s the idea,” Steve said, gently, his own voice low and rumbling and hoarse, too, surprising him, “but only in a good way, fella.  C’mere.”  He used his hand in his hair to tug Tony down against him again, brought him in between his legs, against his chest, and wrapped both his arms around him.  Tony sighed, let his head rest against Steve’s chest, curled in against him so sweet and eager it made Steve’s chest hurt.  God, Tony needed to be held.  He’d hold him forever, if Tony wanted it, because Tony deserved to be held and to feel loved and protected, and he hadn’t had enough of it, had he?  Steve could give that to him.  He wanted to give that to him.  He curled both arms around him, nuzzled into his hair and held him close, stroking his back so he wouldn’t feel cold, and Tony just sighed and melted into him like he never wanted to move again, like he’d been waiting years just to be here in Steve’s arms, held just like this.  
  
Steve held him for a long time, just drifting on it, feeling Tony draw soft little shapes on Steve’s chest with his hand, lips pressed softly to Steve’s skin, until they were both boneless with relaxation.  Steve felt half-asleep.  Tony’s forehead was warm, hot and sweaty against his skin, and he moaned, all husky and soft and full of pleasure, like he couldn’t help it, every time Steve stroked his hair, scratching gently along his scalp and tugging at the big handfuls of messy curls that filled his palm, that twined around his fingers so eagerly.  Tony liked having his hair stroked, Steve thought, distinctly, and took so much pleasure just from doing it, from petting him gently there, tugging his hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his neck and letting his fingers curl in the soft strands, stroking gently, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his scalp.  Tony liked it so much he could feel him hardening again, his cock going hard and needy against Steve’s hip, not as wet as Steve’s but still damp with want and sticky around the head, all velvet softness of skin over the firm, hot length of him.  He didn’t think Tony had even noticed how hard and needy his cock had gotten—there was so much relaxation in his body, his legs loosely curled between Steve’s, his muscles soft and warm against his.  
  
“I know something I’d like,” he said, eventually, into Tony’s hair, against his ear, and Tony made a questioning noise, raised his head.  His lips were soft and wet and gently parted, and he looked up into Steve’s eyes with a touching, trusting eagerness, like all he wanted out of life was to make Steve feel good and trusted Steve to tell him how to do that, like he’d do anything at all if only Steve asked.  
  
“Yessir?” he said softly, and his voice was all husky and soft and rough.  “Anything for you, peaches, honeymuffin, sugarpie.”  
  
Sweet.  That was so sweet.  Steve thought he’d never get enough of hearing those sugary nicknames on Tony’s lips, directed at him.  He smiled at him, and Tony smiled back, and he’d never get enough of that, either.  He thought about Tony warning him earlier not to promise anything, and then how he’d just promised Steve anything he wanted, and his chest ached, with both affection and a sweet, hot, helpless pain.  
  
“I want you to rub yourself off between my thighs,” he said.  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had that.  A real long time.  And I like it.  I like feeling it, knowing that a fella’s got his prick between my legs, and I’m making him feel good.  It feels so—so wet and slick and, and it’s good for me; it’s real good.  Would that be something you’d like?”  
  
“Intercrural,” Tony murmured, eyes bright and interested.  “Interfemoral.  Oxford Style.  The Princeton First-Year.”  He grinned, the expression still so soft and loose on his face.  “That was what my first boyfriend called it.  The Ivy League rub.  Of course, I was at MIT, so I think he was teasing me.  You do like your classical mythology, don’t you?”  His gaze was so warm and soft as he leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Steve’s head, where the wings on his cowl might have rested, his eyes fluttering closed as he did it.  “Winghead,” he said, and his voice was thick.  “My Hermes.  My Apollo.  You want to play Ganymede to my Zeus?”  
  
“Um,” Steve said, and his own throat suddenly felt thick, with both emotion and desire.  His over-eager cock was twitching again, a needy, wanting ache that burned and almost hurt.  “I—hell, yes, Shellhead, please.”  His voice sounded so thick.  “I want that, yeah, I want that, hell.”  
  
Tony kissed him, soft and achingly sweet, until Steve was trembling down to his toes.  “I’d love that,” he said, softly, looking up into Steve’s eyes as he slowly let them flutter open again, feeling dazed and hazy and warm.  “I just don’t know if I’ll come.  Is that all right with you?”  
  
“Anything you do is all right with me,” Steve said, sucking on his bottom lip.  “As long as—as long as you’re okay with that?”  
  
Tony waved a hand dismissively, then slid it up into Steve’s hair and petted his scalp, so gently.  “Fine with me,” he said.  “Are you sure you don’t mind, with how Firebrand got your thighs, before?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Steve said.  “The bandages’ll get a little sticky, probably, but you said you’d change them anyway.  I don’t mind if they get wet.  The blisters are already pretty much healed.”  
  
Tony looked at him with concern in his eyes for a moment, stroking the pads of his fingers through Steve’s hair, against his scalp, then sighed and shrugged.  “If you were anyone else,” he said, “we’d be waiting until you healed.  I hope you know that.”  
  
Steve smiled hesitantly up at him.  “I might as well enjoy the serum,” he said.  “Now that I have it again.  Why not enjoy myself and what it can do for me?”  
  
“You have a point,” Tony said, and tapped his fingers against his own restored chest, no scarring or the messy reminders of a traumatic past there to be seen now.  “And if it hurts?”  
  
“Remember what I said about pain?” Steve asked, a little self-conscious, and it came out so husky and rough, low.  
  
“I do, babe,” Tony said, and framed his jaw gently with his hand for a moment.  “Okay.  All right.  If you’re sure it won’t feel terrible for you because of those burns.  Then I’ll do it.”  
  
“It won’t,” Steve said confidently.  He knew himself; he knew his body.  It would hurt, he was sure of that, but in a way that wouldn’t feel bad at all.  At the moment they itched more than anything, itching with sweat and the dampness that already had the bandages clinging to his thighs.  
  
“Well,” Tony said.  “I don’t have any lube, but you do get awful wet, and there’s always spit.  That okay with you?”  
  
By way of answer, Steve spit messily and thoroughly into his hand, then rubbed it down between his own thighs, unable to keep back his gasp as his wrist rubbed up along his cock as he did, though he did bite back the needy, wanton moan that wanted to escape.  He rolled over onto his front, reached down and squeezed at his cock, twisting his hand over his leaking tip until he was messy with it, unable to totally keep from moaning, then added that to the slick mess between his own thighs, too, shaking with the sensitivity of it as he rubbed at them.  He lifted his bottom a little, invitingly, and Tony swore behind him, moaned, and then spat into his own hand, leaned down to add more spit to the slickness there, his body slotting in snugly against Steve’s back.  Tony leaned down and pressed a kiss to his shoulder.  “Gorgeous,” he murmured against the back of Steve’s ear, then reached between his sticky thighs, took his cock in his hand, tugged it back until it was curving down, and every sticky, messy pulse of precome ran into Tony’s palm, down his wrists, and wet his thighs.  
  
It didn’t take long before Tony was apparently satisfied with Steve’s slippery thighs, the way they rubbed together slickly, and then he was pressing Steve’s legs together at the knee.  Steve hurried to follow his urging, pressing his thighs together with all his strength and curling his good arm around the pillow, gripping it tight and pressing his face into it as he lifted his rear enough to feel his cock bobbing up against his stomach, dipping and bobbling with his movements, swinging in the air, curled his injured hand against his chest.  The burns were itching, just like he’d expected, twinging with a tight, tugging pain, hot and light over the skin, just a little deeper twinge in against the muscle.  Tony squeezed at his hips, bit lightly at his shoulder and then kissed the same spot more deep and wet, and then he felt Tony’s hand on his cock, pushing it between Steve’s legs.  
  
Steve sighed out a long breath of pleasure as Tony slid home in the tight valley created by his thighs, the way it slid Tony’s hot, neatly, perfectly constructed cock, his length, over his hole and perineum until he bumped up against his balls.  Tony reached around him, then, got his hand on Steve’s base, against his balls, and pushed down, and Steve moaned, choked on his own breath, as that held him down enough that Tony’s tip pushed his balls to either side and rubbed up against the sensitive base of his cock, the bottom of the underside of his shaft.  
  
“God, you’re sweet,” Tony murmured roughly against his shoulder.  “You’re perfect.  Damn, that’s wonderful.  You’re wonderful.  You’ve got such strong thighs.”  The praise made Steve glow all over with a warm buzz of pleasure, pleased to be pleasing to Tony.  He buried his face in the pillow and panted.  
  
“Thank you,” he mumbled.  The way Tony felt there, cock rubbing between his thighs, still sensitized from his earlier orgasms, the need that had built and pulled tight inside of him and now prickled hot and tingling everywhere under his skin with a hot tight effervescent heat that left him moaning and gasping with sensation, no longer exactly pleasure but not pain, either.  “Oh, God, thank you, Tony.  Just—just thank you.”  
  
“Wow, you love this,” Tony murmured with a little gasp, still thrusting between his thighs, pressing up tight against Steve’s groin, in that way that felt so devastatingly intimate because it was almost backwards from how he was usually touched, Tony’s cockhead rubbing against that sensitive spot between his thighs, behind his balls and before his hole, his shaft hot and wet against Steve’s sensitized hole, and bumping up against his balls from behind, sending his cock swinging and sometimes rubbing against the base of him and leaving it wet and sticky-slick, but nothing else, so that the only stimulation to Steve’s cock was how it bumped up against his own belly, but his hole and perineum and balls were alive with intimate sensation, with rubbing and friction, hot between his balls as they jolted with the movements Tony made up against him, between them.  Normally his balls never got so much more attention than his cock, and it was a strange, wonderful feeling.  “That’s so hot—” Tony moaned, low and harsh and heavy, “that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever—oh, yeah, clench those thighs tight, Steve, honey, God, you’re so good.”  
  
The praise made Steve feel like soaking in a warm bath did, his mind fuzzy and thick and sparking with pleasure, and he bit down on the pillow as he moaned, drooling and wet, choking on his own spit the way he always started to when he got as into it as this, Tony’s cock feeling as hot as a brand between his wet, hot thighs.  He was going a little raw where Tony was rubbing along his skin, but that was perfect, too, almost the best part, along with the little twinges of pain from his bandaged thighs.  He could feel himself dripping precome all along his front, down his chest, feel it dripping over his hot, sensitive nipples even as they rubbed against the bed with every one of Tony’s thrusts.  A moment later Tony’s hand was there on one of them, tugging at the sensitive nub as he thrust between Steve’s hot, tight, prickling thighs from behind, his forehead pressing into the back of Steve’s shoulder even as his fingers squeezed tight on Steve’s nipple.  It shot through Steve, a hot dizzy spike of pure sensation that spread through him, shifted into pleasure as he moaned, gasping, his head falling back as Tony squeezed at his chest, tugged at his nipple, teasing at it gently, and thrust through his thighs from behind.  He felt—warm, and covered, and his cock ached, his balls on fire with sensation, as Tony leaned into him, chest against his back.  Steve felt his eyes slide closed.  It was so good.  He couldn’t really think to talk, but Tony’s constant praise, the gentle warmth in the words, was so wonderful, settling into Steve deep and warm in a way that had him floating, like he was walking on air.  
  
It took a while, but he somehow knew when Tony was getting close—it was more than his words stuttering and dropping off into long, deep groans, whimpering gasps against his back, but something in his rhythm, the way he clutched at Steve tightly, the heat of his cock between Steve’s raw thighs and the pattern of his breathing.  Even once Steve could tell he was close, it seemed to take a long time for Tony to come, thrusting quickly, erratically by that point, his breaths harsh and heavy against Steve’s skin.  When Tony finally cried out and came, burying his face in the skin of Steve’s back, and his hot come splattered over Steve’s thighs, over his balls and cock, Steve moaned and got his own hand down, the uninjured one, to pump himself once, twice, and came too, floating on the warmth and intensity of it, how good he felt, as Tony whined and panted, moaning with pleasure against his back.  Steve let himself slide down against the bed, then turned over, curled himself around Tony instinctively, still with his hand around his cock, unable to quite drag it away yet, stroking out the last vestiges of his orgasm.  A few streaks of come streaked out of him across Tony’s thighs, and the thought, the _sight_ of it, made him groan and the aftershocks of his orgasm pulse through him with a little more heat.  He squeezed his cock and moaned, pressing his face into Tony’s shoulder. His orgasm left him feeling drained, light and heavy at the same time, floating and oddly relaxed, soft, limp and lax with his pleasure-heavy lassitude, all the strength and tension in his body flowing out of him as he started coming down from it.  
  
It took him a long time to realize that Tony was trembling against him, shaking, and then he heard the choked little noises he was trying to keep back, the heaving tiny little sobs, and he slid his arm around him tighter, feeling a sudden horrible twist in his stomach, in his gut, that maybe Tony regretted this.  He pulled him tighter into his arms, curled his arm around his shoulders, hoping with a pang of self-consciousness that Tony wouldn’t mind that his hand was still wet with come, and pressed his mouth into Tony’s tousled hair, peppering him with soft kisses.  Tony was _crying_ , and Steve couldn’t help it; he just wanted to hold him.  It was like an instinctive need in him, to hold him while he hurt, even if he was the cause of it.  
  
“You all right?” he asked, and it came out of him hoarse and sex-rough.  “Tony?  You there?  Can you hear me, fella?”  
  
“Oh, God, Steve,” Tony said, voice thick and wet and choked with tears.  He pressed closer into Steve’s arms, hid his face against his chest like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to bury it there or in his own arms but definitely didn’t want to look at him.  “I-I’m so sorry, that was so—so good, you were so p-p-perfect and beaut-beautiful and—and I don’t know what’s come over me, I’m so sorry, it felt so good.”  His hand tightened, clenched up tight at Steve’s back, and then Tony stuttered, hoarse and low, “Please don’t—don’t g—” and then cut himself off, ruthlessly, his whole body stiffening up as if he’d used physical effort to cut off his words.  
  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve said, low and hoarse himself, feeling it, hearing it rumble in his chest, and pressed a kiss to Tony’s ear, curled himself close around him.  
  
As long as Tony didn’t regret what they’d done, as long as Tony still wanted it, still wanted him, anything was all right.  He could handle anything.  
  
Besides, it made sense to him that Tony might feel overcome after sex.  How long had it been since he’d let himself feel really good, after all?  Steve doubted Tony had even jerked off in far too long—it seemed to him that he’d been denying himself every comfort, every possible pleasure, before he’d come along.  All that pleasure, at once, along with the emotionally overwhelming feeling of being with Steve, if it had been for him anything like how it had felt for Steve to be with Tony—yeah, it made sense to him.  He just hadn’t wanted to be the cause of it.  Hadn’t wanted it to be because of regrets Tony had, about being with him.  Anything else, he felt like they could work out together, and that was everything.  Together, they could do anything; they were Winghead and Shellhead against the world.  
  
“I’ve gotcha,” Steve murmured, again.  “It’s okay.  I’ve done that, too—after I’ve come, and it feels like everything, all at once, like you’re feeling all of it at the same time.  Like you let go of your control, too.  It’s okay.  I won’t think any less of you, I promise.”  
  
“Don’t you ever get tired of being patient with me,” Tony said on a quiet sob into Steve’s chest, one he tried to hold back by biting his lip; Steve could feel it.  
  
“I’m not all that patient,” Steve said, regretfully, thinking of walking out on Tony, leaving him teary-eyed and collapsed hopeless on a flophouse floor.  He rubbed his thumb at the base of Tony’s neck, against the top vertebra of his spine.  “I haven’t been as patient with you as I maybe should have been, in the past, if you ask me.  But I’ll always forgive you.  I mean that.  And if you mean—why aren’t I fed up with this—I don’t think there’s anything to get fed up over about you being a little emotional, Tony.”  
  
Tony gasped breathlessly against his chest.  “I—what—” he said.  “I’m such a—such a fucking, teary-eyed mess, I’m so weak and, and fucking pathetic, why aren’t you—”  
  
“God, Tony,” Steve said.  “After what you’ve been through?  After what we just—what we just had together?  I’m not gonna grudge you some tears.  I was—I was swept up in it, too.  My emotions.  I was right there myself.  You think I didn’t tear up, too?”  He wasn’t going to deny it, not to Tony, that there had been tears in his eyes more than once during that.  He’d felt so emotional, so overcome.  He clumsily picked up Tony’s hand in his injured one and shifted just enough that he could press a soft, heartfelt kiss to Tony’s knuckles, to his hand, before he looked up at him with all the sincerity he could muster.  
  
Tony’s eyes were wide and liquid, wet and hazed with tears, and as he looked at Steve he squeezed them shut, shoved the back of his hand against his mouth, gasping, formed it into a fist.  “Steve,” he said again, breathlessly, helplessly.  
  
“I love you, fella,” Steve told him, earnestly, because he meant every word.  He rubbed his fingers over Tony’s, curled them lightly around his, his thumb rubbing against Tony’s hand, down the side of his palm.  “I mean that.  I’m not going to change my mind because of some tears after you come, or anything like that.  Not that, not ever.”  
  
“I don’t deserve you,” Tony said, low and broken, but he curled his arms around Steve again and held on tight, pressing himself into his chest, so Steve just held him.  
  
“I don’t think that’s how it is,” he said, softly, but that just made Tony cry harder, and so Steve just held him tighter and stroked his bare back and tried to keep Tony’s body warm with his until Tony’s sobs had tapered off, and he was just lying against him, limply, seemingly dazed and numb, barely moving.  
  
Steve coaxed him back, wiped his face gently with his thumbs and smiled at him until Tony gave an uncertain, lopsided smile back, then bit his lip and looked away again.  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” Steve told him, and Tony’s breath hitched in his throat.  Steve leaned in and pressed a kiss to his eyelids, first one, then the other, then curled his hand around the back of Tony’s neck.  “I remember something about my dressings needing to be changed?” he said almost lightly, and was rewarded by a smile and a shake of Tony’s head, disbelieving, like he couldn’t quite believe Steve was bringing that up now.  
  
“They do need to be changed,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, broken and rough.  “I’m not going to risk your health just for a little sex.”  
  
“We could probably do that better in the shower,” Steve suggested, and Tony nodded.  He let Steve get him up, lead him into it, quiet and following Steve’s lead like he still felt a little numb.  Steve coaxed him into the bathtub, under the spray, then curled his arm around him as he drew the shower curtain closed, pulling him close.  
  
Tony resisted at first, like he was surprised, then leaned forward, rested his head on Steve’s shoulder with a sigh.  Steve stroked his shoulder with his good hand and quietly reveled in the feel of him there, naked and warm and trusting, resting exhausted against him, emotionally played out but letting Steve hold him, support him.  Help him.  Keep him safe, even.  He could do that.  He wanted to do that.  “Remember what I said,” he said after a moment.  “I love you, all right?”  
  
“I—I—” Tony stuttered to a stop, rubbed his eyes on Steve’s shoulder in a quick, almost vicious movement.  “It’s hard to believe I deserve that,” he said, after a moment, quiet and low, and Steve pushed down his first response of indignant anger, of hot argument, because that was Tony being open with him, wasn’t it?  It was Tony sharing his feelings.  
  
“I know,” he said.  “But we disagree on that, mister.  And even if—maybe—you didn’t—which you do, believe me—love isn’t about what we deserve, is it?  I don’t really feel like I deserve yours, either,” and God, if that confession didn’t leave him feeling raw, flayed open and bleeding, sticking painfully in his throat, “but I’m grateful for it.  And I’ve always loved you.”  
  
“I don’t know why,” Tony said thickly.  “We’ve fought so much.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we have a lot of strong emotions about each other, I guess,” Steve said.  At least, that was true for him.  
  
“You got that right,” Tony said on a scoffing little cough, and moved a little closer, swaying against him under the spray, curled his arms around Steve’s waist.  His hands clenched tight at Steve’s back, then stroked gently.  “I can’t believe this,” he said, a moment later.  “I never—never thought you’d want me.  I mean.  After the drinking—and then—after the thing where I went after everyone with my technology, and the Kree Supreme Intelligence, I thought—I thought I must have blown it with you for good.  You might tolerate me as a friend, but you’d never—never want me.”  He swallowed painfully, spasmodically, his throat working, and Steve wondered how long he’d been carrying this, this weight of—of loving Steve and believing Steve would never, could never love him back.  
  
He felt responsible.  
  
“Trust me, Tony Stark,” he said, warm and heavy against Tony’s ear, moving one hand down to squeeze at his waist, then lower, at his rich, luscious rear end until Tony gasped, jerked in surprise, “Tolerance is not really something I’ve ever felt about you.  Not even once.  I might—I might get so damn mad at you that I see red,” though it was hard to remember how he’d felt then, now, like this, “but I’ve never _tolerated_ you.  Everything I’ve ever felt about you was way more intense than that.”  
  
Tony gave a hoarse, choking little laugh.  “Yeah, okay,” he said.  “Understood.  I hear that.”  
  
Steve stroked his back, his sides, with one hand, used the fingers of the injured one to curl under Tony’s chin and lift it so he could meet his eyes.  “And I love you,” he said.  “That doesn’t mean it’s gonna be easy, I know that, but I do.”  
  
Tony’s eyes looked wet again.  His eyelashes were damp and so damn long, clumping together with the spray of the shower.  “I love you, too, Steve,” he murmured, barely audible.  His eyes slid closed, as if just saying it, the force of it, left him exhausted and trembling.  “I love you so damn much.”  His mouth trembled again, and he firmed his jaw, swallowed hard.  “I have for so—so long, I—it still feels so surreal to say that.  Are you sure I won’t—won’t wake up?”  
  
“I feel like that, too,” Steve said, and meant it, his chest tight and aching, “but you won’t.  This is real.  I promise.  I promise you that,” and he took Tony in his arms again, to kiss him softly, warmly, putting every bit of caring he felt for him into it until they were both trembling.  
  
It was only after they pulled away that Tony wiped at his mouth, smiling at Steve a little and still looking dazed, his fingers lingering like his mouth was tingling as much as Steve’s, then went down on his knees again, unwrapping Steve’s bandages gently, carefully, before he cleaned the wounds just as gently under the shower spray, bracing Steve with a hand behind his thigh each time.  Steve tried not to think about the vivid sense memories he now had about the sight of Tony on his knees between his legs, but it was difficult, and he could feel himself stirring just looking at him.  Tony just grinned, bit down on his bottom lip and looked up at him with a mischievous spark in his eye that Steve already knew he would learn to adore even more than he already did.  
  
“Insatiable,” Tony said.  “You’re going to wear me out, aren’t you?”  He sounded pleased at the thought, at least.  “Don’t get too excited.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Steve gasped.  “I don’t mean to.”  
  
Tony smiled and took pity on him, just leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss well above the wound in Steve’s thigh.  “I know,” he said, and then he was moving onto the other one.  
  
He would have done Steve’s hand, too, but Steve managed to convince him to let him wash his hair for him, first, before he took the bandages off.  The sight of Tony leaning against the shower wall, eyes closed in pleasure, moaning a little and sucking on his bottom lip as Steve massaged shampoo into his messy, overlong curls, body pliant and soft and relaxed as he just—let him, let Steve take care of him, let Steve do that for him—Steve would remember that, treasure it, forever.  Tony looked so sweet and . . . just open like that, no walls, just relaxed, his body liquid and pliant, moaning as Steve rubbed his thumbs in against the tight muscles at the nape of his neck, massaged his fingers through his hair before he took his time about washing it out.  
  
He hoped Tony would let him do that a lot more in the future.  
  
It was after that, after Tony had finally come back to himself after long moments of slumping against the wall, eyes heavy-lidded, after Steve had washed the shampoo out of his hair, that Tony did clean his injured hand.  He did Steve’s hair, too, and Steve couldn’t deny that it felt good, it felt _amazing_ , as Tony massaged and shampooed his hair for him, washed it out, then washed him all over, too.  Steve felt sated and warm and pliant himself, and he couldn’t seem to stop wanting to touch Tony, not sexually, just to slide an arm around him, to touch his chest, his arm, his shoulder, to feel the warmth of him, to hold him close.  They were both laughing a little, though Tony still looked uncertain, half-haunted, as they got out of the bath, stumbling all over each other because they didn’t went to stop touching, and dried each other off.  Tony was insistent but gentle as he got Steve sitting down, fully nude this time, once he was dry, and replaced his dressings.  
  
“It doesn’t even hurt,” Steve promised him, hating the worry in his eyes, but Tony didn’t look convinced, shaking his head over the injuries.  He knew he’d be the same way if Tony were the one hurt—though Tony didn’t have the serum, so he privately thought it would make more sense for him to worry, in that case—so he let it go, mostly so Tony wouldn’t have ammunition to call him a hypocrite the next time Tony got hurt, and just brushed a kiss over the muscles of Tony’s shoulder, the back of his neck, stroking a hand over the muscles of Tony’s belly, as he stood up and Tony turned around to put the medical supplies away again.  “Much as I like the view,” he said, and was rewarded with a rush of heat against his lips, under Tony’s skin, though he didn’t visibly blush, “you should put some clothes on.  I don’t want you to get cold.”  
  
“Same goes for you,” Tony said, but he obeyed, wearily climbing into an old sweatshirt that seemed to hang off his slim frame and a pair of sweatpants.  He loaned Steve another pair, though these weren’t quite as pleasantly loose on him as the last pair, and insisted Steve wrap up in his robe again, and then Tony also decided to change the sheets, balling them up and stuffing them in an already rather full laundry hamper before stretching new ones over the mattress, and they were falling into bed again.  
  
There was a moment of awkwardness, as they stared at each other, Tony’s eyes wide and uncertain, and then Steve reached out, drew him down into a kiss, and Tony melted against him, body hitching with a gasping, emotion-laden breath.  Steve took him in his arms and pulled the blankets up over them, kissing Tony until they were both breathless and limp and sleep-heavy, then pulled away, caressed his face again and smiled at him.  “C’mere,” he said, and this time Tony didn’t hesitate, but curled his arms around Steve willingly, pressing close against him.  
  
Steve slid his hand into his hair and stroked the loose, soft curls until he could feel Tony falling asleep, floating on a soft wave of weariness himself, his body feeling so good and loose and relaxed he couldn’t help following after Tony into slumber.


	6. Just The Way You Look Tonight

The next few days felt like a dream, a perfect, impossible dream that was everything Steve could have ever wanted and never even known he did, let alone that it was something he could actually have.  It started as soon as he woke up that next morning, and turned on his side to see Tony curled beside him in a loose sprawl, still fast asleep, mouth slightly open and damp, his whole body visibly relaxed.  A surge of pure, warm joy, of affection, jumped in Steve’s chest, and he leaned in, pressed a kiss to Tony’s forehead.  Tony made a soft sound and didn’t wake, and Steve found himself just smiling, unable to help it.  Tony hadn’t woken him up with nightmares, and he dared to hope that meant he hadn’t had any—maybe he’d been so exhausted with sex that he’d slept deeply, or maybe Steve’s arms around him had helped keep them at bay, though that felt like almost too much to hope for.  
  
He got out of bed and scrawled Tony a note on a loose sheet of paper, before he left by the back stairs.  He jogged first, just to work the restless energy, fizzling under his skin, that his happiness had brought him out a little bit, then headed to his motel room to gather up a few of his things and brush his teeth.  On the way back, he stopped in at the bagel place and got Tony and himself enough for a good breakfast, and even splurged on their fancy coffee.  By the time he was letting himself back in, Tony hadn’t stirred, and was still lying in a loose, soft sprawl on the bed, having curled into where Steve had been sleeping.  Steve smiled, got rid of the note, and let him sleep, eating his own bagels.  
  
It wasn’t long before Tony woke up, groggy and slow, clutching his hand to his head, in his hair, as he sat up.  When he saw Steve, he froze, bit his bottom lip, eyes wide.  
  
Steve smiled at him, crossed the room to kiss his temple, then brush his lips slow and lingering against his cheek.  “Good morning,” he said, and smiled at him even more widely, curling his good hand around Tony’s fingers.  “I hope you slept well.”  
  
Tony raised a hesitant, shaking hand and touched Steve’s cheek.  “Steve?” he said softly.  
  
“That’s me,” Steve told him.  He turned his head, kissed Tony’s hand.  “I bought you breakfast.”  
  
Tony smiled, and it was one of the most beautiful things Steve had ever seen, hesitant and tremulous and filled with a dawning joy that Steve hadn’t even seen on his face the night before.  “You’re so sweet, honey,” he said, voice rough, still hoarse with sleep, then blinked, faltered a little.  “You—you don’t mind?  If I call you honey?”  
  
“I like it,” Steve said, feeling himself flush at how true that was, and Tony smiled even more widely, his lashes fluttering over his eyes as he looked down and to one side, as if made sheepish by his own happiness, and then he got out of bed with a brief kiss, almost flustered, to Steve’s cheek and headed for the bathroom.  
  
They ate breakfast together, and for once Tony ate with enthusiasm and gusto, sitting so close to Steve they leaned their shoulders together, and Steve thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful as Tony that morning, soft and rumpled and open, visibly happy, as he ate bagels and drank coffee.  They kissed for long minutes afterwards, wrapped up in each other, hands curled in each other’s hair and against each other’s necks.  It was only after that that they, half-unwillingly, pulled away from each other and talked over what had happened with Firebrand as Tony insisted on changing Steve’s bandages again, and how they should check on the Restoration Project.  
  
They headed over together, but there wasn’t much to find out.  Steve was relieved to find out that the fire hadn’t destroyed much, but no one else seemed to know anything more than they did, and in fact quite a bit less.  There were a lot of theories floating around, but no facts.  People were frightened, and he and Tony both found themselves instinctively shifting into a long-ingrained superhero role, to calm the frightened people around them.  No one knew who they were, but that was the only difference—otherwise it could have been the aftermath of any one of their fights as Avengers.  
  
Finally, they were walking back, by the river and the park where Steve did most of his running, and Tony sighed, pulled him to a stop, then led him off to a secluded little place by the riverbank, shrouded from the road by weeping willow trees.  He leaned on the railing around the river, and Steve put an arm around him, kissed the back of his neck, and felt Tony just melt under him.  He leaned into Steve, then smiled up at him.  Steve smiled back.  
  
“It’s amazing,” Tony murmured.  “Just looking at you can make me feel better.  Like everything I’m worried about just—just disappears.  I feel so lucky you even want me.”  He bit his bottom lip.  “My beautiful friend.”  
  
“I want you,” Steve said, with an open, honest smile for him that he thought was encouraging.  “But I feel the same way.  So lucky that you even want me.”  
  
Tony made a scoffing noise, shrugged one shoulder like he couldn’t believe Steve would say such a thing.  “I told you,” he said, softly, very softly, “I’ve been in love with you for years.  It’s hard to believe you want me back.  It’s making me feel a little dizzy, to be honest.”  He sighed, blew his breath out, turned back to the river.  “You could have anything you want from me, you know that?”  
  
Steve processed those words with what was almost a spark of alarm.  A few months ago he would probably have just thought Tony was being romantic, found that statement sweet.  Now he wondered how true it was, how much Tony would give to him without question.  He rubbed his hand on his back, over his shoulder.  “All I want from you is for you to be happy,” he said.  “And for you to make time with me.”  
  
Tony just sighed, softly, like he couldn’t quite believe he’d heard Steve say that, and his eyes slid closed.  He leaned into Steve’s chest, and Steve held him close.  Tony stayed close to him even on the walk back, and in the evening decided they should order Chinese food again, because he wanted Steve to have plenty to eat and, he said with a self-conscious, sheepish little smile, one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up and that Steve was learning always filled him, Steve, with a wave of helpless love, because he wanted to celebrate a little.  That made Steve curl his hand around the back of his neck and kiss him, and Tony leaned into him, let Steve put his arms around him, for long moments before he got up to call in the order.  
  
Steve hadn’t had such a good night in a long, long time.  They sat together on the sofa, so close they could eat out of the same containers, and every time he saw Tony laugh or smile felt like a minor victory, like he’d won something wonderful.  He found himself wrapping an arm around Tony, rubbing his thumb at the side of his waist, against his hipbone, along the bare skin under his shirt, and Tony would chuckle and feed him bites of the food with the chopsticks, refusing to allow him to attempt to eat with his injured hand, pressing it back down whenever Steve lifted it until he just gave up, because he wasn’t willing to remove his good hand from around Tony’s waist, either.  “Best way to eat Chinese,” Steve said, after a swallow of a big bite, pressing his face in against Tony’s neck, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder in pure happy affection, and Tony laughed, a warm, sweet chuckle, and kissed his ear, briefly.  
  
“I’m happy to feed you, big fella,” he said, and kissed his lips briefly before he offered him another bite.  “Any time you want.”  
  
“I’m a lucky guy,” Steve told him, and Tony just smiled and offered him another bite.  After they were done with dinner, Tony just turned in against him, let Steve hold him, for a long time, head on his shoulder, and Steve thought, besotted and warm, that nothing had ever felt better.  He knew that was a little ridiculous, that he was riding high on infatuation and the thrill, the flush, of love, but he didn’t care.  He felt too wonderful to care, and Tony was too wonderful for him to worry.  He just held him, reveling in it, until Tony sighed and set up with a quick kiss to his lips, and Steve gathered up the boxes to dispose of them and put the leftovers into Tony’s tiny little fridge.  Tony used the bathroom and showered, and when Tony came out of it again, Steve took his hands, pulled him close against him, appreciating the damp warmth of him, the smell of his cheap soap and shampoo, the way water droplets clung along his hairline, the base of his neck.  “Hey there, fella,” he said warmly, low and soft, and Tony bit his lip and leaned into him.  
  
“Hey there yourself,” his voice hoarse and soft and low, and his eyes fluttered closed as Steve kissed him.  
  
In a lot of relationships, Steve might have taken the sexual side more slowly, worked up to it.  But with Tony—well, they had fallen into bed right away, and there was no reason he could see to hide the fact that he did want Tony, that he adored him and wanted him sexually, physically, on top of it.  This time he kissed Tony, and caressed him slow and gentle, sliding his hands up under his shirt, kissing him deeply and stroking his face and the back of his neck, until Tony was swaying into him, softly and willingly, mouth open and warm and welcoming for Steve’s as Steve stroked his hands up and down his back, against his bare skin under his shirt.  The way Tony kissed him, like this, eyes closed and pressed close against him, arms around Steve’s neck, made Steve feel like he was pouring everything he was into the kiss, like he was holding nothing back.  He’d never felt anything as dizzying, as heady, as that, Tony Stark pressed against him, focusing on him like there was nothing else in the world.  
  
That night, they took things slow and simple.  Steve was most interested in touching Tony all over, caressing him and just making him feel good, and the soft, warm sensitivity of his skin, dewy after his shower, just made it even better, more heady and addicting, to see the way Tony would gasp and arch under each slow, simple caress.  As Steve trailed his fingers down Tony’s thigh, Tony gasped and bit his lip against a moan, then looked ruefully up at Steve and said, “I should have remembered to buy lube.”  
  
“We can tomorrow,” Steve said, taking Tony’s cock in his hand and giving it a slow, even stroke until he saw Tony’s eyes flutter closed on his gasp as he lifted his hips up into the touch, groaning and almost whimpering as Steve squeezed on the down stroke.  “You want to do something that we’d need lube for?”  
  
“If you want to,” Tony murmured without opening his eyes.  “Only if you want to.  I want to do whatever you’d like.”  
  
“You’re so generous, Tony,” Steve told him, and meant it, curling his arm around him as he gave him a few more slow, easy strokes, loving the way it made Tony writhe in his arms, pant and arch his back.  “You’re sweet, wonderful—so damn sweet to me I don’t know what to do.”  
  
“Easy to be sweet to you,” Tony said, biting his bottom lip and flushing, and he was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen; he had to lean forward and kiss him, and Tony moaned and opened up for his mouth, pressing up into the kiss.  
  
That night they both just used their hands on each other until they came, and then Tony insisted on kneeling between Steve’s legs and sucking him off again, his mouth still so impossibly sweet and perfect, impossible to resist, until Steve came down his throat so hard his legs were shaking, so hard his vision nearly blacked out, and pushed his hand against his mouth to muffle his practically sobbing breaths.  His eyes felt wet as Tony pulled off his slowly softening cock, licking it clean with soft, almost solemn little passes of his tongue like cleaning Steve off, sucking him clean, gentling him through his peak, was of utmost importance to him, then leaned his head against Steve’s thigh, shivering a little, soft and affectionate, closing his eyes.  He moaned a little, softly, when Steve got a hand down and started to stroke his hair, tousling it with gentle strokes, telling him again and again how beautiful he was, how perfect that had been, how good he was at that, how wonderful he’d made Steve feel.  
  
They slept in the same bed, again, Tony curled warmly against Steve’s chest the same way he had the night before, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder, and there was barely enough room for both of them in the narrow bed, but Steve didn’t mind that at all, not if it meant Tony pressed close against him like this, soft and warm and relaxed as he breathed evenly, his arm curled around Steve’s side, Steve’s hand in his hair again because it made Tony tremble lightly with pleasure as he stroked his hair.  
  
The next day was just as good.  Tony had to work, so Steve spent more of it on his own, but walking on air because Tony had told him to just move the rest of his stuff over, stay there with him.  He spent most of the morning drawing, studies of Tony, his hands, his smile, the slope of his back, the glorious rounded curves of his rear end, but mostly his face, the way he’d looked as he rested his head on Steve’s shoulder and closed his eyes, a soft little smile on his face like, for a change, for once, he actually felt happy.  He headed downstairs around lunch to collect Tony and take him out to the diner for a meal, and Tony was all smiles to see him, though he hesitated just a little at the door of the diner, taking off his work hat and squeezing, even twisting it, between his hands.  But when Steve ordered him a milkshake he smiled again, his mouth soft and warm and crooked and his eyes even softer still as he drank it through the straw, sucked it off the spoon, his eyes still on Steve’s the whole time.  He loosened up, relaxed over the time they spent there, and Steve felt a warm thrill just to see him eating, again, like he had an appetite, before he turned his attention to his own meal.  He walked Tony back to his apartment, then, after he’d changed, to the Restoration Project, just soaking up the thrill, the warmth it made him feel just to walk with him that way.  
  
Once Tony had gone in, Steve paid his shot at the hotel and spent the rest of the day cycling through the channels on his radio, checking for Avengers alerts and making sure he hadn’t missed anything.  He could have called Fury, but he didn’t want Fury to know he had ever been here at all—Fury was too sharp, and he’d trace the call even if Steve used a pay phone, and Tony still being alive was exactly the kind of thing Fury would want to know, so that he could use it for his own benefit, and SHIELD’s.  He couldn’t risk it.  Instead, Steve spent the afternoon practicing in the gym, before he headed back to Tony’s, showered and got dressed and left to pick him up and walk him home again.  Tony was carrying a bag of groceries when he met Steve outside the building, and told Steve he had plans for dinner.  
  
When they got home, Tony told Steve firmly that he was cooking and that Steve should sit back and relax and, in Tony’s words, let Tony play housewife for him, which he said with a smile and warmth dancing in his eyes and a squeeze of his hand around Steve’s.  Steve did, couldn’t help but watch, caught up in the way Tony moved around the kitchen like he absolutely knew what he was doing as he made them spaghetti.  He looked more like himself, more like _Tony_ , than he had since Steve had been there, Steve thought, and his throat felt thick as he remembered all the times Tony had cooked for him, for them, in the mansion, even really early on.  There had been a time, not long after Steve had been unfrozen, when his hands had been hurt, like now only worse, and even though he’d hardly known Tony Stark at all at the time, Tony had insisted on cooking for him—had made him a big mug full of hot and sour soup and a rich shrimp toast that was easy to pick up even with his sore, painful fingers, hovering over to make sure he could eat it okay before he sat down to eat a bit himself, his eyes on Steve the whole time.  At the time, Steve had thought it was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for him (honestly, it was still up there), and he still remembered how rich and delicious it had tasted, how it had exploded in his mouth with luscious flavor, new and headily exotic to him, like nothing he had ever expected from a meal cooked at home—he hadn’t even known Mr. Stark could cook.  
  
There was pride in Tony’s eyes as he put a heaping bowl of spaghetti and another of salad on the table.  “Eat up, slugger,” he said, and Steve couldn’t help but beam back at him.  
  
“It looks delicious,” he said, "It looks wonderful," and Tony smiled like he was thrilled by the praise.  It made Steve feel wonderful, and eating food Tony had made for him was even better.  It was delicious, of course, the spaghetti perfectly coated in the sauce, and he told Tony as much, reaching out and taking his hand lightly in his healing injured one, until Tony was smiling again, squeezing his hand in return.  Tony had always done so much to provide for him, Steve thought then, always made sure he had enough to eat, and here he was and nothing had really changed, had it?  Tony might have been struggling, might have not even wanted to _be_ Tony right then, but he was still going out of his way to provide for Steve, to feed him, to make sure he was well taken care of.  Tony had always been so good to him, always cared, even when they were fighting, and it made Steve feel warmer than he had since he’d realized Tony was alive and hadn’t told him, because yeah, maybe Tony had cared all along, even when they’d been fighting, or arguing, and Steve had thought he hadn’t.  He just hadn’t seen it, because Tony was Tony, layers upon layers, more complicated than Steve might ever understand, and he hadn’t known how to look.  But Tony had still cared, hadn’t he?  
  
And that made Steve feel—feel so warm, and safe, and lucky, to have this from Tony.  To be someone Tony cared for in that way.  To be someone Tony went out of his way for.  To be someone who could make Tony smile like that, so broad and sweet.  
  
After dinner, Tony insisted on changing the bandages on Steve’s injuries again, and finally smiled in relief when he saw them.  “That’s more like it,” he said, running his hands gently over the strained, itchy skin of Steve’s palm, healing and sensitive, now more like the tight remnants of a sunburn than a true burn.  
  
“I told you they’d heal,” Steve said.  “Blisters and everything.”  
  
“You did,” Tony said, smiling a little, his voice not hiding his relief at all, as he cradled Steve’s hand in his and brought it up to his lips, pressing little kisses to each of his fingertips that left Steve shivering and overcome with the sweetness, the warmth, the romance of the gesture.  Tony still bandaged the injuries again, though, tsking like a nurse, or like Jarvis, at Steve when he protested.  “Better safe than sorry,” he said quellingly, and Steve just sighed and let him have his way, too happy with him to protest.  
  
Afterward, and after Steve had taken a shower, Tony looked at him, then bit his lip and said, “I bought lube.  At the store.”  
  
Steve had wondered if he had.  “Yeah?” he said.  “And what do you want to do with that, mister?”  He took a step toward Tony, curled his arms around him and brought him close.  
  
“What would you like to do?” Tony asked, looking up at Steve with his eyes blown and soft.  
  
“Well,” Steve said, and traced his fingers down Tony’s jaw, bent to kiss him.  “I was thinking maybe you could open me up for you and push inside to take me this time, not just use my thighs,” and Tony sucked in his breath, and Steve felt Tony’s cock jump, twitching and hot where it pressed into Steve’s hip.  
  
“You want me to,” Tony started, as if he’d never expected that, as if he’d expected Steve to want it the other way—and he did, he did, but it hadn’t escaped Steve that Tony had never once offered his hole, even with his body language, or even particularly seemed to want it stimulated, even while he’d lavished attention on Steve’s, and besides, he’d been practically salivating over the idea of Tony’s cock inside him since the idea had first occurred to him, and he just wanted it a little bit more than the other way around.  They’d have time for the other way if Tony wanted it, wouldn't they?  Steve wanted this first.  To remember.  
  
And he knew he’d remember it for the rest of his life.  Tony made slow, careful love to him, there was no other word for it, no other way to describe how Tony treated him, how he laid him down and opened him up slow and gentle, sucking Steve’s cock as he did until Steve was trembling and lost in the pleasure of it, close to coming, before he moved away and turned Steve over, massaging his shoulders, his thighs, his ass, stroking him gently inside, before he pushed into him, and took him with such soft, slow, steady strokes, holding his hands as he did it, that _making love_ was the only phrase Steve could think of.  
  
It was his turn to have tears in his eyes by the end of it, half overstimulation, because he’d come three times on Tony’s cock before Tony’s peak, each time easy, each time dizzying with the swooping peaks and valleys and the high, giddy heights of his pleasure, half emotion, because he’d never been treated with such gentle, implacable care in bed, he was sure of it, even with everything he’d done with his partners in the past.  Tony used a condom, and Steve knew it was right for him to do it, was honestly grateful for the consideration, but as he lay there aching and spent, his whole body feeling the imprint of Tony as he lay there against his back, gasping, still inside him, and Steve felt the soft echoes of Tony’s pleasure through his whole body, he wished Tony had come bare inside him, filled him with his come until he was wet with it and dripping, that he had left that mark inside him, too.  
  
When Tony pulled out of him, moved away to dispose of the condom, he moaned, missing him already, and he curled grateful into Tony’s body when he returned to him and Steve could press his face into his side.  Tony murmured gently to him, kissed his forehead and his ear and his shoulder, stroked over his skin, the curve of his hip and rear, before he was pressing two fingers back inside Steve and he moaned, cried out gratefully, arching against the welcome fullness and pressure in a place he’d felt was suddenly strangely empty with Tony gone.  
  
“God, you come so beautifully,” Tony murmured.  “You’re so beautiful for it, so sensitive.  You’ve got the most sensitive prostate I’ve ever seen, big fella.”  Steve panted, whimpering, hands fisting in the blankets until it almost hurt, as Tony’s fingers circled it again, slid gently over that sweet spot that made him see stars.  “All open and soft for me down here,” Tony said, softly.  “You open up so easily, so eager, honeybunch.  God, I’m so lucky.  You give it right up, don’t you?  Is this all for me?”  
  
“All for you,” Steve agreed on another soft moan, opening his eyes just so Tony could see how much he meant it, his sincerity, licking his bottom lip.  “All for you, Tony.  I love you.”  
  
“Oh, sweetheart,” Tony said brokenly, and kissed him again, fingers moving gently inside of him.  He took his time with Steve, kissing him deeply and sweetly until Steve was utterly overcome, even more gone on it than he’d been before, overwhelmed and floating on pleasure, lying limply against the bed lost in the pleasure of it, building up soft and slow as Tony kept his fingers moving inside him, against his sweet spot.  “You could come again real easy, couldn’t you?” Tony murmured, and Steve nodded, breathless and caught up in it, feeling the tingling waves of pleasure from how Tony was touching him inside all the way down to his toes.  
  
“’m easy for you,” he slurred out, clutching at Tony with one hand, and Tony just smiled at him, his eyes tight and fond.  
  
“Sweetheart,” he said.  “Yeah, that’s it.  Ride my fingers.  You barely need attention to your cock, do you, kitten?  Jesus, so big and so sweet.  That’s it, press down on my hand, just how you need it.”  His fingers curled around Steve’s long, hot, heavy length, played over the sticky head, and Steve moaned, deep and low and long, feeling helpless and helplessly strung out.  Tony leaned down in another moment, wrapped his mouth around Steve’s cockhead, and sucked, gently, bobbing his head slow and insistent, and the warm, wonderful, incredible suction, the way it made Steve feel, along with the insistent pressure along that beautiful spot inside Steve that made him see stars, had him coming in just another few seconds.  
  
His orgasm seemed to go on for a long time, slow soft waves of it dragging him under, as Tony kept massaging him there, inside, and he kept spurting in slow helpless pulses, Tony’s mouth never leaving him as he swallowed and swallowed.  When Tony finally stopped, pressing a kiss to his tip and trailing his lips down along the shaft to press another kiss to Steve’s balls before he pulled away, Steve’s balls felt strange, drained and empty and light; his whole body felt strange, drained and free and sparking with strange, disconnected pleasure, sensitive all over and especially in his inner tissues, that sweet spot inside that almost seemed to itch, throbbing helplessly, as Tony drew his fingers away.  He felt oddly empty there, too, as if he’d been drained down to the dregs, and he knew Tony had milked his come out of him, practically all he had to give, because his girlfriends had liked doing that, too—it was dramatic, he supposed, Steve had a lot to give up to it—but he hadn’t had it in a long time.  
  
He was a boneless puddle, incapable of even sitting up, and he felt a wash of helpless, loving gratitude, of absolute warmth and caring and adoration, as Tony got up, tousled his hair gently—his mouth was wet and sticky with Steve’s come, and Steve reached out with one hand, touched it clumsily with his fingers, which made Tony blush, as he rubbed along his swollen lower lip, before he got Steve’s hand, squeezed it, and tucked it down under the pillow.  “You lie still,” he said, stroking Steve’s back, petting gently up and down his spine, “and take it easy,” and Steve just moaned an affirmative and closed his eyes.  He’d never felt such complete, easy trust after a series of orgasms, though the drained feeling, bordering on tears, was familiar, and he found himself just floating on it as Tony got up and he heard water running, only to have Tony return and use a few soft, warm, wet towels, one soapy, one not, to rub Steve down all over, before he got up again, probably left them in the bathroom, and slid into bed beside Steve.  Steve sighed happily to have him there and reached for him, and Tony came into his arms, put his arms around Steve and pulled him to his chest.  
  
That night Steve was the one tucked against Tony’s chest, Tony’s arms around him, stroking and sweet as he shivered out the aftermath of the pleasure Tony had given him, and Steve held him close, practically clung to him, breathed in the smell of his body, and drifted into sleep feeling warm and safe and loved and incredibly free in a way he hadn’t felt in so long he could hardly remember the feeling, Tony’s hand curled into a gentle fist at his back, the other cradling the back of his head.  He dreamed of Tony, and safety, and the mansion, them laughing and curled up in bed together in Tony’s big bed there, and that warmth and safety was all through his dreams.

* * *

  
  
Steve hardly ever slept late at all, but he did the next morning, again, not waking until the sun was already bright in the sky.  He woke feeling refreshed and easy, and it was his turn to be spoiled by Tony having bought him breakfast.  Tony was solicitous, sitting beside him and stroking his back, arm around his shoulders as he ate breakfast, and Steve was sure he didn’t need the sweet consideration, but it felt so good he was glowing with it anyway.  He recognized that Tony thought he had maybe gone under the water the night before the way that happened when people played power games, or played with pain, and Steve thought maybe he wasn’t wrong about that, but he was feeling good, not empty or needy or jittery.  It felt too good to be the focus of Tony’s gentle solicitousness to push him away even a little, though, and Steve soaked it up, just reveling in it, until Tony pressed a gentle kiss to his lips like he could barely tear himself away, stroked his hair lightly with his fingertips, kissed his forehead, apologizing the whole time for having to leave, and took himself off to work.  
  
Steve took a shower after he left, feeling the glow of sexual satisfaction through his whole body.  He hadn’t been taken like that in years, for—a long time, and it felt so good.  His body was thrumming with energy and sated, consummated pleasure, and he just hoped Tony would want to do that again.  That he’d want to do that a lot.  Tony’s cock had felt so perfect inside him, pressing up on him inside just right, and it felt indulgent even to him, but Steve let himself push two fingers inside his hole, pressing in until he felt a little stretch, and ride them as he tugged at one nipple till it was hot and throbbing and he was close to the edge, then curled his hand around his cock and rubbed one out.  He usually did masturbate every morning, but with the number of orgasms Tony had given him the night before it felt almost decadent, almost greedy, to come again.  Steve did it anyway, let himself lose track of himself in thoughts of Tony until he came all over his hand.  
  
God, he was so needy, it almost embarrassed him.  But, well, he hadn’t indulged himself sexually in a long time, so Steve gave himself a pass for it, and let himself enjoy the rest of his shower, a less sexual, simpler pleasure in the warmth of the water, the relaxation of his muscles.  
  
Tony came back later, they had the leftover Chinese for lunch, and Tony was in a good mood again, flirty and bright-eyed and laughing, so bright and happy it felt like a warm bright bubble of happiness was filling up in Steve’s chest just to see him.  He wasn’t sure how Tony was feeling, what was going on in his mind, but it was wonderful just to see him bright and smiling, less miserable and down and serious than he had been.  Steve walked him to the Restoration Project again and this time he waited for him, sitting in the small garden outside and sketching the building, losing himself in the pleasure of the sun on his shoulders and back, and idly watching the people walking by outside, just in case.  
  
Tony had a smiling, gentle flush as he met Steve outside that evening, and Steve asked him about it as they made their way home.  
  
“Pam asked me if I had a boyfriend,” Tony said, flushed and flustered and a little apologetic even though he sounded happy.  He sounded _thrilled_ , honestly.  He rubbed the back of his neck and looked sideways at Steve from under his eyelashes.  
  
“Boyfriend, huh?” Steve asked, smiling.  He took Tony’s hand and squeezed.  “I like the sound of that.”  
  
“You do?” Tony sounded so thrilled, awed and a little confused, almost.  “It’s been a long time since I had a—a boyfriend, I guess.”  
  
“Me too,” Steve said, blithely ignoring the fact that though he’d been with men, he’d _never_ actually had what he’d call a boyfriend, though, God, he’d wanted it with Sam.  But Sam had had his girl before Steve worked up the courage to ask, and that had used to hurt so bad, but now it didn’t seem anywhere near so painful.  Not now.  
  
“So you want to?” Tony asked.  “God, I sound like a stupid teenager, don’t I?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Steve said, brimming with happiness.  “Yeah, I want to, lover-boy.”  
  
“How—how is that going to work?” Tony asked, hesitantly.  “I’m not sure—I—”  
  
“We’ll figure it out as it goes,” Steve said.  “It’s going great so far.”  
  
“That won’t last,” Tony said, low, under his breath, but Steve just knuckled at the back of his neck, the gentlest rebuke he could manage.  
  
“We’ll figure it out,” he said.  “We’ll get there.”  
  
Tony sighed, and hung his head, but let Steve stroke the back of his neck even though they were walking down the street.  “Okay,” he said, and Steve slung an arm around his shoulders.  “Okay,” he said.  
  
“Okay, boyfriend,” Steve said, and grinned, and Tony laughed.  They stopped in at the convenience store and bought deli sandwiches, and Steve let himself revel in the fact that for once he was the one with money, the one who could treat Tony to meals and little things he wouldn’t normally buy for himself, when he bought him another pack of Oreos and a chocolate bar.  Tony had protested, but he also smiled and held the food to his chest on the way back, like Steve had done something precious and wonderful for him rather than bought him some cheap chocolate because he knew Tony liked chocolate.  
  
That night, after they’d eaten and Tony had eaten his chocolate bar with a moan that made Steve go hot and red and think about sex, Steve turned on the radio, and curled his hands around Tony’s once he’d found an oldies station, tugged on his hands.  “I’m feeling better,” he told him, and Tony smiled, looking a little bemused, confused even, but willing.  “Dance with me?” he said, and then Tony smiled more softly, let Steve pull him in to his chest, curling his arm around Steve’s neck.  
  
“You’re taller,” he said, as Steve took his hand, running his thumb over the back of Tony’s knuckles, down the side of his palm, as he started to sway them together, turning around in slow, gentle circles, and Tony followed.  “Are you going to lead?”  
  
“I’m taller by what, an inch?” Steve asked, grinning at the absurdity of it.  “I’ve seen you dance.  You’re the better dancer.”  
  
“Oh, come on, Steve,” Tony said, fingers sliding teasingly along the back of Steve’s collar until he shivered.  “You’re one of the most graceful people I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“I didn’t used to be,” Steve said, cheerfully.  
  
“All right, then,” Tony said, and adjusted his grip on Steve, pulling Steve against him this time, shifted the grip of their hands, and pulled Steve into a quick, irresistible swing step.

  
  
In Steve’s day, dancing had been one of the focal points of romance, and though he’d never got up to much back then, aside from the odd USO social that always left him flustered as the girls left breathless to have danced with Captain America and he wished for someone to just look at him like he wasn’t all that, and even once he’d been unfrozen, it still felt—felt different than other ways of showing you liked someone, to him.  It was sentimental, he guessed, but Tony _was_ a good dancer, and it was romantic, dizzying, to have Tony swirl him around the room like he was doing, easily guiding him away from the stuff strewn all over Tony’s floor, though he’d picked up quite a bit since Steve had first come there.  But this—the old songs crooning on the radio, the way they had when he was a kid, the way Tony’s hand felt in his, his body against him—it left Steve feeling dizzy and romantic, swept up in the romance of the moment, the way few things ever did.  He wondered if Tony realized how desperately gone on him Steve was, how perfect this felt to him.  How much he adored him.  He hoped he was doing enough to show him, to show Tony how he felt about him.  He hoped Tony believed it.  
  
Tony did a quick step and spun around, then his hand urged Steve to do the same, which Steve did, with a probably silly grin, even as Bing Crosby sang about accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative.  Tony sped up their steps along with the music, making Steve move to follow him, impressed by how fast Tony’s footwork was.  Tony was humming along, mouthing the words a little, which made Steve smile back, even as Tony held to his hand and walked him through his quick steps.  Steve remembered the song from 1944, and felt like the lyrics kind of fit what he was trying to do with Tony here, now, even as Tony encouraged him to mime running in place, twirled him in place, and stepped into a long swing dance sequence that Steve had really had no idea Tony would be capable of pulling off.  He ended up with Tony’s arms around him even as Tony panted.  
  
“All right, Fred Astaire,” Steve said, grinning.  
  
Tony smiled.  “You think so?” he said.  “I had a lot of dance classes as a kid.”  He took a step back, with a flourish, holding to Steve’s hand, in time with the opening fanfare of the next song.  
  
“It shows,” Steve told him.  “See?  I told you, you’re a heck of a dancer.”  
  
“You’re biased again,” Tony said, carelessly, but he was grinning widely as he slid his hand up to Steve’s shoulder and spun him into a loose circle of easy steps.  
  
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Steve said.  “You’re just lucky I’m not stepping on your feet.”  
  
“Feel free,” Tony said with a grin, twirling himself around, back against Steve, so that their arms crossed across his chest.  Steve smiled and kissed his ear, kissed his temple, holding him close and swaying with him until Tony spun out again.  “So,” Tony said, “what, haven’t gotten enough practice in?”  
  
“Don’t get a lot of chances,” Steve agreed, feeling a little wistful, as Tony led him through the next series of steps, easy enough.  And he never got to follow like this, he added mentally.  He’d used to look at some of the fellas, sometimes, at the dances during the war, and wonder what it might feel like to dance with them once in a while, not to lead, but obviously that had been little more than an idle thought in those days—dancing with a fella had been a joke, something you did when there weren’t any ladies around, or something you did at drag balls, and Steve had never quite had the urge, or the courage, he wasn’t sure which, to go to one of those.  
  
“You like dancing,” Tony said, pulling Steve in a little more and twirling him around.  
  
“I do,” Steve said, sighing, but smiling at the same time, because Tony was holding him so sweetly as he slowly spun him around.  
  
“Well, any time you want to,” Tony said, with a tentative little smile.  “Don’t hesitate to ask.” Glenn Miller’s band crooned, _Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, till I come marching home._  
  
“Yeah, well,” Steve said.  “I might take you up on that, pretty fella.”  He grabbed Tony around the waist and spun him around even as Tony smiled and kept them moving.  
  
“It’d be my pleasure,” he said softly.  
  
The next song was nice and slow, and Steve found himself pressing close to Tony, their faces so close together, as they spun and swayed gently together.  Tony smiled soft and crooked, and reached up, stroked his hand along Steve’s face, thumb gentle along his jaw.  
  
_You’ve got a hold on me; what can I do, but always hold on to you?_ asked the song, and Steve couldn’t help but agree even as Tony leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, the soft, clinging, brush of his lips leaving Steve breathless, even as Tony pulled away and spun him into the next song.  
  
_I’ll be seeing you_  
_In all the old familiar places_  
_That this heart of mine embraces_  
_All day through_  
  
Steve recognized Billie Holiday’s fragile, raspy voice, her distinctive delivery, and for a moment he was back in 1944, listening to her record of this song in a ratty old bar in France.  Tony pressed close to him, warm and intimate and perfect, and for a moment Steve’s breath came thick and close in his throat.  He closed his eyes, and pressed his mouth against Tony’s cheek.  
  
_In that small café_  
_The park across the way_  
_The children’s carousel_  
_The chestnut trees_  
_The wishin’ well_  
  
Tony’s hand tightened on his, the other one sliding up and around the back of his neck, holding him closer, his hand warm and close as he turned Steve around and around.  They were chest to chest, so close he could feel the beating of Tony’s heart, a little quick with their earlier exertion.  It surprised Steve how emotional he felt, how near to tears he was, how gently and firmly Tony was holding him as they swayed together.  
  
_I’ll be seeing you_  
_In every lovely summer’s day_  
_In everything that’s light and gay_  
_I’ll always think of you that way_  
  
But it was true, wasn’t it?  Hadn’t he seen Tony everywhere until he’d found him here?  Wouldn’t he be seeing him everywhere, for the rest of his life?  He couldn’t walk away from him, and, well, it was a song about losing someone.  It had always hit him right in the heart, hard like a blow, and now—all of a sudden it was all tied up with the feel of Tony in his arms, the warmth of him, the way his overlong hair brushed against Steve’s cheek, his hand, his wrist.  
  
_I’ll find you in the morning sun_  
_And when the night is new_  
_I’ll be looking at the moon,_  
_But I’ll be seeing you_  
  
Steve kept his eyes closed and let Tony lead him through the song, cradling him close, wishing he could keep him this close, protect him like this, close to his body, forever.  Had he always loved Tony like this?  It was strange, yet familiar, to think that he had.  It felt right.  He pressed his cheek closer to Tony’s and breathed unevenly.  
  
When the song ended, Tony swayed up against him, toward him, pressed their lips together again.  He kissed him long and slow, soft, even as another song started, and he put both hands on Steve’s hips as they spun slowly into it.  Steve’s eyelashes felt wet, and the way Tony was rubbing at his hips, his waist, made him tremble.  
  
The next song was “The Way You Look Tonight.”  Of course it was.  It felt—right.  Perfect.  Like that was exactly what it should be.  
  
When Tony pulled away, Steve curled a hand around his waist, opened his eyes and smiled at him, and pulled Tony back to him, swaying him into another series of circles together, this time taking over, leading Tony in a slow, soft series of steps.  Tony leaned into him, eyes blown and soft, arm still wrapped around Steve’s shoulders.  
  
“With each word your tenderness grows, tearing my fear apart,” Steve mouthed down at him, “and that laugh that wrinkles your nose touches my foolish heart.”  
  
It was Tony’s turn to bite his lip, his eyes full and liquid and a little wet.  
  
“You’re lovely,” Steve sang to him, soft and low, and meant every word, “never, never change, keep that breathless charm, won’t you please arrange it, ‘cause I love you just the way you look tonight.”  
  
“Steve, honey,” Tony said, low and breathless, barely any voice behind it at all, and as the song came to an end, he swayed into him, almost stumbled, and Steve held him close, turning him in slow circles in place, even as the next song started.  “At Last,” Steve registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but he barely cared, just glad it was another slow one, so it made sense to keep turning Tony slowly in his arms.  
  
They kept dancing for a while after that, Tony’s hand soft and warm in his, not demanding, as Steve took over leading.  His steps were simpler than Tony’s had been, but he got the idea that Tony didn’t mind.  He put his head down on Steve’s shoulder after a while, his other hand at the back of Steve’s neck, and let Steve lead him.  Eventually Steve sped up again, and Tony laughed as Steve spun him around, held him in his arms, as their steps turned silly again, just for the pure fun of it.  
  
Eventually, Tony spun them around again until they were back against the bed and pushed Steve down onto it, smiling down at him.  He leaned in, stroked Steve’s face and kissed his lips, then leaned over him to turn off the radio.  “I don’t need listen to The Andrews Sisters while I make love to you,” he whispered, eyes sparkling, and Steve was surprised by the big belly laugh that got out of him.  Tony grinned and moved to straddle him, and Steve grinned up at him, reaching up to frame Tony’s waist with his hands and pull him down into him.  
  
“Have I mentioned yet tonight that I love you?” he asked, and Tony bit his lip.  His eyes looked soft and full, the skin around them tight with emotion.  
  
“You might have said something about it,” he said, his voice hoarse and husky with it.  
  
“Well, I do,” Steve said.  “C’mere, mister.”  He pulled Tony into him, and Tony came willingly, leaning into it as Steve kissed him, as he caressed Tony’s face as he pulled away.  “How can I please you tonight?” he asked.  “Maybe I can suck you off, huh?”  He caught Tony’s hands as Tony gasped, as he groaned back in his throat, and bore him gently back over to his back in the bed.  “Let me see what I can do for you,” he murmured, already kissing his way down Tony’s neck to the collar of his shirt.  
  
When they were both sated, and lying curled together naked in the blankets, Steve’s hand warm at the sweaty curve of Tony’s hips, against his back, Tony leaned in and pressed a kiss to Steve’s bare shoulder and murmured, “I think you’re spoiling me.”  
  
“I don’t think so at all,” Steve said with a rueful laugh, and pressed a kiss to Tony’s forehead.  “You’ve always been so good to me.  And besides, I have some things to make up for.”  
  
“Huh?” Tony said sleepily.  “Like what?”  
  
“Walking out on you before,” Steve said, stroking Tony’s hair.  “Not checking in on you more after that thing with the Kree Supreme Intelligence.  We talked it out, but I still let you feel like I was mad at you.  I’m glad you had Jim, but I should have been there for you, too—I mean, you were there for me when I was losing the serum, every time I needed you.  You’ve always been there whenever I needed you.” It hurt to admit how he’d failed Tony, and how many times, but he’d been thinking about it a lot lately.  
  
“What are you talking about,” Tony mumbled.  “You’re plenty good to me, Steve, baby.  Don’t worry about that; don’t ever worry about that, don’t even think about that.”  
  
“I hurt you,” Steve said, stroking his cheek, gently, ducking his head down so he could look into his eyes.  “You said it yourself.  I’m trying hard to do better, but I’m afraid I will again.  Let me worry about that, huh, fella?”  
  
“You’ve been so good to me,” Tony said on a yawn, and curled up against him a little more, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.  “I love you.”  He stroked his thumb gently over Steve’s neck.  “No matter what happens, I’ll always have had this.  Thank you, honey, baby.  Best gift anyone’s ever given me.”  
  
“Oh, Tony,” Steve said, feeling his throat thicken up, his chest ache.  
  
“No, ‘oh Tony,’” Tony mumbled sleepily.  “I love you.  Thank you for loving me.  For holding me.  Even if this is all we have.”  He curled tight against Steve, ran his hands up along his back, and pulled him close.  
  
“It won’t be,” Steve murmured into his hair.  “I promise.”  But Tony was already asleep, naked and supine, still with the sweat of loving drying on his shoulders and back.  
  
Steve sighed and kissed the top of his head, tangled his hand gently in his hair, and held him close for another good few moments before he got up to clean them both up.


	7. In The Silence, When There's No One By Your Side

Tony woke up slowly the next morning, vaguely aware that he hadn’t had a single nightmare for almost a week.  Ever since the first night Steve had slept in his bed, when he’d been hurt—Tony had slept restlessly that night, sleep broken up and uneven, but ever since they’d gone to bed together—well.  It was obvious what was keeping his nightmares at bay.  
  
He wondered how long that would last after Steve left to go back to the Avengers.  He refused to let himself dwell on it.  
  
Steve was sitting across the room, at the kitchen table, sketching idly, and he greeted Tony with a warm, bright, sunshiny smile.  _God, sunshine_ , Tony thought, aching almost painfully at the sight of him.  He was just so beautiful.  He was so much more than Tony deserved, but he clutched every tight of him close to his heart, greedy for more, like he’d never get enough, not ever.  Steve was so sweet, so—bright, and he seemed so, surreally, obviously in love with Tony.  It was like the most wonderful dream Tony had ever had, the exact opposite of all his nightmares.  “Good morning,” Steve said.  “How’d you sleep?”  
  
“Um,” Tony said.  God, that was still so surreal, to have Steve greeting him like that, after spending the night in bed with him, after having slept together the night before, after falling asleep in his arms.  Steve had held him.  All night.  Again.  Tony felt so safe in his arms.  He didn’t know what to do with that.  “Yeah.  I—I slept really well.”  
  
Steve beamed at him.  “Good,” he said.  “I’m so glad.  What do you want for breakfast?”  
  
“Uh,” Tony said.  “Let me wake up a little first, huh, slugger?”  
  
“Sure,” Steve said, with a sheepish laugh.  “Sorry.”  
  
It was awfully close quarters, Tony reflected as he stepped into the bathroom, but honestly, he wouldn’t change it for the world.  He felt so lucky, just to have had this time with Steve, to be with him here.  He’d never had anything like this—the last time he hadn’t been Tony Stark he’d been some nameless drunk, and that had been awful, but Carl had been nice enough to offer “Eddie Chaney” a job, and with his kindness and Steve’s presence, everything was different this time, and it felt—it felt so strange, but good, too, to be with Steve not exactly as Tony Stark, but just as—as himself, in a way, even if Eddie wasn’t really him, either.  
  
And, honestly, he’d been comfortable sharing space with Steve for—for years, really.  Steve was an easy person to live cheek by jowl with, because he was so comfortable with it himself, sharing space, living in close proximity.  
  
“I’m going to make you breakfast,” Tony said as soon as he came out of the bathroom.  He still wanted to spoil Steve, all the time; every time he looked at him he felt so lucky, and affection welled up within him, wanted to spill over, and he just wanted to do everything for him he could.  He couldn’t buy him things—he really didn’t have any money, God, Steve had been paying for his food half the time since he’d gotten here—but he could spoil him in other ways.  Fix his bike.  Show him the best time he could in bed, serve him with his body, love him in every way he could love him with his touch.  And, somewhat to his own surprise, because he hadn’t thought about it since—since he didn’t know when, his mind still scrambled and confused when he tried to remember—he remembered how to cook, and the spaghetti he’d made the other night hadn’t come out half bad.  
  
“If you’re sure you want to,” Steve said, but he was already smiling.  
  
“Just watch me,” Tony said, smiling back despite himself, feeling that joy welling up in him again just to see Steve smiling at him.  He looked through the refrigerator and decided on eggs benedict, eggs benedict with smoked salmon (Steve had gotten that at the store, because Steve was too good to him) and chives (Tony had gotten those for the spaghetti the other night).  Obviously he’d have to make Steve an extra serving, or two, but it was a decent way to spoil him, to show off a little that he could actually cook.  Poach some eggs, make a decadent hollandaise sauce?  He could do that. Even with only one burner.  
  
Halfway through, he got the distinct impression that someone was watching him, and looked back over his shoulder to see Steve sucking on his pencil’s eraser, obviously drawing him.  “Oh, jeez, Steve,” he said, laughing despite himself.  
  
“What can I say, I love to watch you at work,” Steve said, and actually winked before he went back to his sketchbook.  
  
Tony found himself smiling as he turned back to his whisking his hollandaise.  
  
He’d gotten good at cooking things quickly over the years, multitasking, which usually worked out fine, except when he got an idea for a new project in the middle and forgot what he’d been doing to rush off and jot it down.  So it wasn’t too long before he was constructing his eggs benedict—toasted English muffins, butter, smoked salmon, the poached egg (one for him, three separate benedicts for Steve), covered with the hollandaise and salt and pepper and chopped chives.  
  
The admiring, impressed, grateful look Steve gave him as he set the little towers of muffin, egg, and salmon, sauce oozing slowly down the sides, on the table was worth every bit of work—not that it had taken that long.  _See,_ Tony felt like the eggs were saying, _I love you.  I adore you.  Let me make you eggs benedict and spaghetti to prove it.  Let me make you anything I can to show you.  What do you like?  I’ll do it for you.  Anything you want.  You just have to ask._  
  
Steve smiled up at him.  “You’re too generous to me,” he said.  “Three?”  But Tony noticed that he didn’t say it was too much.  
  
“I know how much you eat, sport,” Tony said, smiling, smiling even wider when Steve patted the chair beside him, and Tony willingly sat down and started on his, elbowing Steve as he did.  “Eat up,” he said.  “Don’t let it get cold.”  
  
“No worries there,” Steve said, and dug in with gusto.  
  
Tony loved watching Steve eat, especially something he’d made for him, something he’d cooked with his own hands.  The genuine pleasure on Steve’s face made him feel warm all through, because that meant he’d done a good job, he’d pleased him, he’d provided for him in a very real, very concrete way.  Steve needed to eat so much, to feel good, to feel his best, and he did let it slide; Tony had seen him do it.  Plus, he enjoyed eating so much, when it was good; his face would light up, almost in wonder, like he’d never expected it.  It was wonderful to watch.  
  
After breakfast, of course, Tony had to run, but he curled his arm around Steve’s shoulders, leaned in for a kiss, before he left, and Steve kissed him back with so much warmth, lingering in the kiss, following his mouth like he didn’t want Tony to go, and Tony kissed him back, again and again, barely able to tear himself away to get to work.  It left him feeling warm, just like watching Steve eat breakfast had.  
  
“Hey,” Carl said, as Tony clocked in to work and got started.  
  
“What have we got today?” Tony asked, and Carl shoved a clipboard into his hands.  
  
“How’s your friend?” Carl asked, and Tony almost jumped.  
  
“Um,” he said.  “Um, my friend!  Yeah.  Yeah, he’s great.”  
  
“Seem close,” Carl said.  
  
It sounded like an offhanded comment, but Tony suddenly thought—oh, jeez.  He sure hoped Carl wasn’t homophobic.  That particular worry had never come up before.  He’d never given Carl any indications before that he was bisexual.  When he’d first come here, he’d barely had any interest in himself, much less anyone else.  
  
“Know him from before?” Carl asked.  
  
“Um, yeah,” Tony said.  Had he told him anything about Steve?  “We used to work together.  We, uh, we were good friends.”  
  
“Good looking guy,” Carl said, and then, unexpectedly, grinned, nudged Tony in the side.  “I’m happy for you, Eddie.  You deserve someone who cares about you.”  
  
“Um,” Tony said.  “What.”  
  
“Why don’t you get to work on that tractor,” Carl said, and walked off, back toward his office.  
  
Right.  Well, apparently Tony had his boss’s stamp of approval.  And his—blessing?  On his relationship with Steve?  
  
Huh.  Okay, then.  
  
Tony spend most of the morning working—it wasn’t stimulating work, exactly, but he enjoyed it, always had.  It was satisfying, to fix the little problems, and big problems, people were having with the vehicles they brought in, and he knew he was good at it.  He barely had to think about it half the time.  
  
He stepped out, in the middle of the morning, to put in a call to Rhodey from the pay phone down the street.  “Is that you, Tone?” Rhodey said, as he picked up, sounding a little breathless, like he’d rushed to pick up.  
  
“Eddie,” Tony corrected absently.  
  
“Whatever, man,” Rhodey said, sounding impatient.  “Who’s going to hear this?  You could loosen up on the ‘I’m not who I am’ shtick, you know?”  
  
“You never know who might be listening in,” Tony said.  “Did an old friend come to see you, by any chance?”  
  
“If this old friend is blond, big, and real patriotic, then yes,” Rhodey said.  
  
“And, uh, did my beloved cousin also stop by?” Tony asked.  
  
Rhodey sounded wary now.  “Yeah, him too,” he said.  “Is something going on?  Tony—Eddie, I mean, are you all right?  Do you need backup?”  
  
“Not right now,” Tony said, “but yeah, something might be going on.  I’ll let you know if things develop in that sort of direction.  Can you look into a few things for me, though?”  
  
Rhodey was more than willing to, so Tony asked him to look into whatever Morgan might be up to, and any rumors about Tony Stark maybe being alive, maybe coming back to life, or anything about Tony’s technology being on the market, and to take a look into whatever Firebrand had been doing lately, and if he showed up again.  
  
“Thank you,” Tony said fervently, afterward.  “I really appreciate this.”  
  
“Aw, it’s nothing,” Rhodey said.  “Least I can do.  Hey—uh, Eddie?  You planning on coming back any time soon?  I don’t mean to pressure you, but . . . .”  
  
“I miss you, too, buddy,” Tony said, swallowing hard.  “I don’t know.  I just . . . I don't know.  Can you work with that?”  
  
“Yeah,” Rhodey said.  “I can work with that.  For now.  You doing all right?”  
  
“I think I might be,” Tony said.  “For the moment.  I’ll keep you posted, okay?”  
  
“You do that,” Rhodey said.  “You better.”  
  
“I promise,” Tony told him.  “I’ll talk to you again soon.  Say hello—say hello to Red and the husband for me, okay?”  He didn’t want to use Pepper’s name on the open line.  The last thing she needed was him getting her into trouble.  
  
“Will do,” Rhodey said with a smile in his voice.  “You take care, now.”  
  
“You too,” Tony told him, and hung up, feeling both oddly energized and drained by the brief conversation.  
  
What he’d told Rhodey was true, he did miss him.  And the more he thought about it, the more he thought about the stress he’d put Rhodey under—asking him to lie for him, to execute his estate, all of it—he thought that he could never have asked Rhodey to take up being Iron Man again.  It just wouldn’t be fair.  
  
So it was him, or nothing. At the moment, anyway.  Tony wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He sighed and headed back upstairs to change for work at the Restoration Project.  
  
The second he stepped into his apartment he knew something was wrong.  He didn’t feel a sense of danger, or anything, but the air, the energy—everything was off, 180 degrees of different from how it had been when he’d left that morning.  Steve was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.  His shoulders were slumped.  
  
“God, Steve,” Tony said, adrenaline spiking, a sense of terror rushing through him, of impending doom.   “What’s wrong?”  
  
Steve raised his head.  He looked pale, but his jaw was set.  It was a familiar look.  Tony realized that his Avengers identicard was on the table in front of him, between his elbows.  “Avengers alert,” he said.  “Came in half an hour ago.  I was waiting for you to get back.  I have to go.”  
  
Of course he had to go, Tony thought, and then his conscious brain, and God, his stupid fucking _heart_ , caught up with him.  The sudden ache, like he was slowly, achingly slowly, being torn in two.  (He’d known things were too good to last all along, hadn’t he?)  
  
He’d just—he’d wanted a little more time, that was all.  A little more time to store up, to treasure, that he could remember for the rest of his life.  He swallowed hard, squared his shoulders.  “I guess you’d better head out, then,” he said, and was proud, actually, of how evenly it came out.  
  
“I know that,” Steve said, and then hesitated.  “I.  I thought, maybe—”  
  
Oh.  _Oh._   Tony thought—he’d thought he’d understood.  He thought Steve would give him time.  Space.  He thought he’d listened.  Stupid him.  “Steve,” he said, through tight lips.  “I can’t.  I won’t.”  
  
“Really?” Steve demanded.  “You really won’t suit up?”  His hand clenched into a fist against the table, though he didn’t physically lash out.  “People might need you, Iron Man.  You’re just going to turn your back on everyone you could help?  Now I know you have a suit—you could come back—what if we could use you?”  
  
“Then I guess you’re out of luck,” Tony said through tight lips, feeling numb down to the soles of his feet.  No, Steve didn’t need to physically lash out.  His words hurt badly enough all on their own.  “Steve, I can’t.”  
  
“You could do it to help me!” Steve said, and his voice sounded confused, more than a little hurt, and God, there was so much judgment there.  “Back with Firebrand!”  
  
“That was different,” Tony said.  He felt dizzy, and just hoped he wouldn’t faint.  His stomach flipped, turned over, nauseated and weak.  “That wasn’t revealing my identity.  I could still—still stay here.  No one would know.  Except—except you.”  He didn’t mention how much courage it had taken to reveal that he’d built another suit to Steve, how he’d agonized over it, for exactly this reason, because he’d known Steve would think—think just like this—but Steve had been in trouble, and Tony’s comfort hadn’t mattered at all.  But he didn’t deserve that consideration.  He knew that.  He knew what a weak fucking coward he was.  “I can’t go back to the team,” he whispered through nerveless lips, and for a moment there he really did think he might pass out.  
  
“Don’t the Avengers mean anything to you?” Steve demanded, getting to his feet with such force his chair thumped back from the table, and God, he was so tall, he was so big.  “Or is it just me?”  
  
“That’s not fair,” Tony said, and hated himself for his weakness as his throat thickened, the thready weakness of his voice.  “You know that they do.  You know that—that’s why I don’t—want to go back.”  _I sent the team money,_ he wanted to say.  _I gave them everything I had left, except myself.  I don’t even know if I have myself left anymore, to give._   But that was just an excuse, he knew that.  He sounded pathetic even in his own head.  He knew he was shaking.  
  
“I don’t know what I know anymore,” Steve said, tightly, and Tony empathized with that feeling, at least.  
  
“I’m sorry,” was all he said instead, and raised his chin when he wanted to look away.  
  
“Is that all you can say anymore?” Steve demanded.  “You’re sorry?”  
  
“I don’t know what else to say,” Tony said.  “What else can I say?  I’ve told you, again and again—I can’t do this again, Steve.  Not yet.  Maybe not ever again.”  
  
“I thought things had changed,” Steve said, and his voice was quieter now, more desperate, as desperate as the way his eyes were scanning Tony’s face.  
  
_So did I,_ Tony thought, and his eyes stung.  He almost let out a sob.  He swallowed it down, instead, blinked his eyes clear.  “Sorry to disappoint,” he said tightly, instead.  
  
“God,” Steve said, and swore, turning on his heel and fisting his hand in his hair before he ran both of them back through it, pushing his hair back off his face.  “I didn’t want to shout at you,” he said, finally.  “That was the last thing I wanted to do.  I’m sorry.  I’m trying to do better about that.”  
  
“It wasn’t uncalled for,” Tony said, kept his voice from shaking audibly with an effort of will.  “I understand.  I must be a pretty fucking big disappointment, these days.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Steve said, and turned back around to him with a hesitant, tremulous sort of smile that made Tony’s heart ache. “Tony,” he said, and it was softer this time.  There was a trace of affection in it, of the love that he’d been showering Tony in the last few days.  “I do have to go.”  
  
“I told you,” Tony said.  “I know that.”  
  
“And I’m sorry I yelled,” Steve said.  “I really am.  Here.”  He fumbled with something around his neck, pulled it off over his head, and pushed it into Tony’s nerveless hand, crossing the room toward him with two big steps.  Tony’s hand closed on it automatically.  
  
It was Steve’s dogtags, the old ones, from the war, that he still wore.  He swallowed hard.  “Steve,” he said, helplessly.  He didn’t use an endearment.  He wasn’t sure he deserved to.  “I—I can’t take these.”  
  
“Sure you can,” Steve said, smiling determinedly into his face.  He closed Tony’s hand over them.  “I want you to have them.  Do whatever you’d like with them.  Wear them, if you want to.  I’d like that.”  
  
“I should go with you,” Tony said, and it was the weakest, most pathetic little voice he’d ever heard out of his own mouth.  “I—I wish I could, Steve.  I wish I was better.”  
  
Steve’s face looked so sad.  “I wish you could come, too,” he said, and then he pulled Tony into a rough, squeezing hug, one arm around his shoulders, at the back of his neck, pressing him close.  He kissed his temple, then let Tony go, picked up his shield, tossed Tony’s keys onto his desk, and opened the door behind him.  
  
In another few seconds, he was gone.  
  
_Don’t fall apart_ , Tony told himself, firmly.  _Don’t fucking follow him.  Don’t—don’t fall apart.  You knew this was coming.  You knew it.  You knew this wouldn’t last.  Don’t fucking fall apart._  
  
He had to slide to his knees, anyway, then lower, to his ass, so he could put his head between his knees, because he felt like he might be going to pass out.  His vision was grey, and it felt like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach.  He was so damn dizzy.  
  
God, what had he been thinking?  Why had he said that, that last thing?  Why?  Why was he so pathetic?  He wasn’t even sure if he _wanted_ to go back.  What was wrong with him?  What was he thinking?  Where was his head?  
  
What would Steve think of him now?  As if his opinion of Tony could have sunk any lower.  Why did Tony seem so determined to ruin whatever good things Steve might have been able to think of him?  
  
He’d be back for his dogtags, at least, Tony thought dully.  He’d be able to see him one last time.  There was that.  When he was feeling strong enough, like he wouldn’t vomit or pass out the second he raised his head, he propped it on his knee and opened his hand, looking down at the tags clenched in his fist.  He ran his thumb over Steve’s name, and only realized he was crying when he saw the tears dripping own onto his nail, onto the metal.  
  
He quickly choked them back, scrubbed his hands across his face, then slid the dogtags around his own neck, tucked them under his work jumpsuit, under his shirt.  
  
It was all he had of Steve for now.  Steve had given them to him.  For the moment, anyway, for safekeeping.  Maybe it was just another form of weakness, to wear them, to cling to Steve that way, when he surely wouldn’t want Tony in the way that intimacy implied when he came back to get them, but—but they’d had that, that intimacy for a while.  Tony would cling to it for as long as he could, anyway, pathetic as it was.  He clutched his fingers over them, under his shirt, against his heart.  
  
He had to get to work, God.  Tony got to his feet, wiped his eyes again, still feeling numb, numb and a little nauseated, and a lot like he’d just been punched in the stomach, more than once, and went to get changed.  
  
He could see that his hands were shaking, as he went, and determinedly formed them into fists, stilled the tremors.  
  
Work at the Restoration Project was—not good.  He’d tried to splash cold water on his face, get rid of the telltale signs of red eyes and flushed cheeks, but he could tell that he was—off enough, or something, that people knew something was up with him.  Pam kept giving him a look, and a few hours in she came and perched on the edge of his desk and handed him a Kit-Kat bar.  Tony looked at her questioningly, but he was feeling just crummy enough that he took it, unwrapped it and took a bite.  “What?” he said.  
  
“Relationship trouble?” she asked.  “If you want to bitch about men, I’m always willing to listen.  You could come over after work, get a pizza.”  
  
“That’s sweet of you,” Tony said, and he really meant it.  “But it’s not that easy.”  Not that he would do that, especially not behind Steve’s back, but if he did, God, what would he even say?  The situation didn’t exactly lend itself to explanation.  
  
“C’mon, Eddie,” she said.  “It’s obvious something’s up.  You were so happy just yesterday.  Now you’re back to your old self again, like when you first came here.”  
  
Ouch.  It sounded so harshly obvious, when she laid it out like that.  He’d become dependent on Steve, on his presence, to lift him out of a funk he hadn’t even acknowledged he’d been in.  
  
“It’s just,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “my friend and I had an argument. He had to leave town for a few days.”  And that was probably the end of that.  “I’m—I’m missing him already.”  To his horror and mortification, his eyes stung.  
  
“Aw, Ed,” she said, and patted his shoulder.  “I see.  So you think he won’t want you anymore, or something?  That this is the end of it?”  
  
“I never said that,” Tony said.  
  
“No, your face did,” she said.  “Well, anyway, not that my opinion counts for much, but I think you’re being stupid.”  
  
“Is that so,” Tony muttered.  It wasn’t like Pam knew Steve from Adam.  
  
“It is so,” she said.  “That big blond hunk of beefcake adores you.  It’s all over his face every time he looks at you—has been ever since he first showed up.  He’ll be back, and he’ll probably sweep you off your feet and leave you too sore to go to work in the morning.”  She winked at him.  
  
“If you say so,” Tony said.  It was an attractive fantasy, that was for sure, but he couldn’t help but feel like that was all it was.  He’d let Steve down so badly—and he had plenty of time to think about it now, especially now that he’d be back with real superheroes, not broken has-beens like Tony.  He’d realize how weak Tony was, how pathetic—cowardly if not a murderer for real, and then he’d come back and let him down gently, gently because Steve was kind, if possessed of all the subtlety of a freight train.  And that would be that.  The end of it.  He’d be lucky if he ever saw Steve again.  And while that had been the plan all along—now it hurt.  Now it hurt so much.  
  
It had been so wonderful while it lasted.  But Tony couldn’t focus on the good memories, not yet.  It hurt too much to see him go, to lose it, because he felt sure he’d lost Steve, even if, maybe, Steve didn’t know it yet.  He hadn’t really said.  Maybe he didn’t know yet himself.  
  
But he would.  Tony was sure of that much.  He sighed, rubbed his temple with one hand, and thanked Pam for the Kit-Kat before he got back to work.  She looked a little sad, but she patted him on the shoulder anyway and got back to work herself.  


* * *

  
  
The days after Steve headed out didn’t get any better.  Tony lost himself in working on the armor, and he couldn’t even have said why, why that was supposed to help, or comfort him, when it had been the exact thing he’d fought with Steve about in the first place.  But he threw himself into it, refining the upgrades he’d made, connecting every last system, until finally he was done, or mostly done, barring a few tweaks here and there, and he sat back in his chair and tossed his screwdriver across the room, because, honestly, what the hell had that been supposed to accomplish?  Reminding him of everything he wasn’t, anymore?  Making a point?  
  
The helmet of the armor stared back at him, unseeing, eye sockets empty.  It felt like it was judging him, too, measuring him and finding him wanting.  
  
“My hands shake whenever I even think about getting back inside you,” Tony told Iron Man.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I don’t know what I’m afraid of.  Is it you?  Or is it me?  That I’ll go out of control again—that I really will become a murderer?  And mean it, this time?”  
  
Obviously, the armor didn’t answer.  
  
“Maybe I’m afraid of how easy it would be to kill someone when I’m suited up inside you,” Tony murmured.  It would be.  So easy.  Sickeningly easy.  The very thought turned his stomach, made him feel dizzy and cold.  He couldn’t do that again.  He couldn’t—be that again.  
  
But then what?  What did he do about Iron Man?  Did the world need Iron Man?  
  
Would someone—God, someone like Morgan, or even Firebrand, or like the Guardsmen, working at the behest of the US government with his technology—try to step in, take his place, without him?  And if that happened, where would that leave him?  
  
Steve was right.  Tony couldn’t stay in hiding forever.  It just—it wouldn’t be responsible.  There was his legacy to worry about, wasn’t there?  Tony Stark might be dead, but the things Tony Stark had made lingered on.  Bombs and guns and—and the Iron Man, too.  
  
Tony moaned, leaned forward, pressed his forehead into his hands.  He could feel them shaking.  God, he thought, what had he been thinking?  Deciding to do this, deciding to suit up in a metal suit and save the world.  
  
He’d been thinking that he was an idiot barely-twenty-one-year-old who thought he was dying, and thought that he’d have enough time to destroy the armor when death finally came for him, make sure it died with him.  The flaws in that plan, as many and glaring as they were, were all too obvious now.  
  
Tony wondered how old he was now.  Did the year he’d spend dead count?  Fuck, was it longer than that?  How about the time he’d lived as a teenager?  In the other world?  He remembered it, after all.  God, how long had it been?  How much time had passed here while they had been there?  How old was Steve now?  Was Tony still a year younger than him, physically?  Jesus, what a mess.  
  
And he was fixating on this so he didn’t have to think about the other thing; he knew how his mind worked.  Tony sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, tried to push back the persistent thought that it would have been better if he’d died in Afghanistan.  Maybe so, but thinking that now wouldn’t fix a damn thing—wouldn’t fix anything he’d messed up, and there was too much for him to worry about to let himself wish for death now, wasn’t there?  Responsibility, just like Steve had said.  
  
God, Steve had to be so disgusted with him.  Tony wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.  Steve was right, he was avoiding responsibilities he had, problems he’d created for himself and others—and responsibility had always meant so much to Steve, always been so important to him.  He had to see Tony as such a useless coward now, and with good reason.  
  
But Tony couldn’t go back.  He couldn’t.  Just thinking about it had him feeling dizzy again, lightheaded and sick like he was about to pass out.  His hands trembled.  He felt sick to the stomach just at the thought of looking the others in the face again.  They’d all know how weak he was then, a weak, puling, pathetic coward.  Just like how Howard had always said.  He couldn’t deal with their scorn, their disdain, too, he couldn’t—but the idea of suiting up again made him flash back to the feeling of his repulsor firing and Amanda dying in front of him, the way it had sent that familiar shock up his arm, and he—he just—he couldn’t.  He almost vomited again just at the thought of it.  
  
God, he was so pathetic.  
  
All right, so he couldn’t face the idea of the Avengers, and he couldn’t face the idea of firing the gauntlets again, so what could he face?  
  
Tony set his teeth and dared himself, dared himself to do it.  He reached out for the armor.  He was going to see if he could still fly.  
  
It was a strange, dizzying feeling to have his feet in the bootjets again, but it only got stranger as he got himself into the rest of the armor.  When he pulled the helmet on again and activated the HUD, for a moment there was a dizzying wash of nausea, of panic, of terror, but then he pushed it back, helped by the fact that the HUD was so different now than the one he’d used then.  
  
“Okay,” Tony muttered.  He’d been so caught up in emotion that he hadn’t really thought this through.  He ended up carefully, very, very carefully, edging out of his room and then taking the stairs to the roof of the building before he took off.  
  
It was only a few seconds before he realized that yeah.  _Yeah._   He could still fly.  This didn’t feel like terror and death and horror and weakness at all.  This felt _perfect_.  This felt glorious.  Tony rocketed up and up and up, far enough that he was pretty sure the risk of being seen was pretty much nil, and then rocked back on his bootjets, stared down at lights and clouds and the patchwork of fields and town and trees and water and roads.  
  
It wouldn’t take him long to get back to New York City, not like this.  The thought was insidious and insistent.  He could feel Steve’s dogtags against his heart, under his shirt, under the armor, cool metal warmed by his skin, thrumming with the vibrations of the armor, almost like a second heart.  A metal heart.  Tony pushed both thoughts aside.  _No_ , he thought.  Not right now.  Right now was for flying.  
  
And fly he did, indulging himself, in loop-de-loops and corkscrew turns, laughing out loud after a while for the pure joy of it, because he was _feeling_ joy in something again, and something to do with the armor, too.  But before too long, he felt himself getting tired, his arm muscles and his shoulders starting to ache, his core, his abs, starting to cramp painfully.  It’d had been too long since he’d given himself a workout like that, and a lot of people didn’t realize how much strength, especially in his core, it took for Tony to maneuver the armor.  Hell, even he’d forgotten.  When he came in for a landing he was sweating under the armor, sore to his bones, and he hunched over clumsily, armored elbows clanging against his knees, as he leaned forward to catch his breath, doubled over.  
  
It was a miracle he managed to slip down the stairs again and back to his apartment without being seen.  Okay, that had been reckless, he admitted.  He wasn’t doing that again.  
  
But hell, he’d _flown_ again.  And it had felt like the same freedom, the same reckless joy, as it always had.  That was something that wasn’t ruined.  
  
That was something he could have, just for him.  Tony carefully hid the armor away again in the cases where he’d been keeping it, then stumbled, exhausted and sweaty, into the shower.  He was so tired he was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.  
  
He dreamed of Steve, but for once it wasn’t anything bad.  He dreamed of Steve sitting there beside him on the bed, one hand on his shoulder, stroking gently.  _I’m proud of you, Tony,_ he said in Tony’s dreams.  _You did good, mister._   And because it was a dream, Tony felt warm and soft and relaxed and happy, feeling the praise well up warm inside him the way it always had when Steve praised him at all, for anything, rather than feeling the sting of tears because God, he’d probably never have that again.  
  
He woke up sore, and then he remembered the dream with a sting of tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, clutching Steve’s dogtags around his neck like they were some kind of lifeline, and he had to take deep, deep breaths to get past it, knuckling the tears out of his eyes, then crying out, feeling them back again for another reason entirely, as he tried to get out of bed and felt the muscles in his legs cramp and seize up.  
  
But he had to get to work, so he did his best to rub out the aches with his sore, weakened arms, with his hands (the way Steve had taught him, his mind insisted on reminding him nastily), and eventually at least it worked enough that he could stand up.  
  
Everything seemed to hurt, and Tony barely made it downstairs in a daze, but at least the physical pain, the need to keep moving and working despite it, kept him moving, kept his mind off the pain of the fact that Steve was gone.  Tony had never been quite so grateful for work in his life as he was during those few days, even in the horrible dark swirl of depression and grief and self-hatred and alcohol that was all he remembered, really, of the time immediately after his parents had died.  But now work kept him going, kept him moving—and more than that, made him feel like he was worth something.  Even if he was a pathetic, puling coward, Carl still relied on him, and he really was helping at the Restoration Project, he knew that.  
  
He couldn’t help watching the news every night, downstairs in the garage when Carl wasn’t there, desperately scanning it for any news about the Avengers, Steve’s dogtags clutched in his fist.  And when he finally did see them—see _him_ —holding his shield high as he waved the rest of the Avengers into battle, himself at their head, directing the fight—God, it hit him like a punch to the gut.  Steve was so—so commanding, on the field, so _Captain America_ , so not what he’d been with Tony, really, at all, and it made him feel even more lost, even more bereft.  
  
Even more like he should be there.  
  
Tony turned off the news and headed upstairs.  He collapsed on the couch and spent the rest of the night staring off into space, hand clenched in the chain of Steve’s dogtags, his thumb rubbing back and forth across Steve’s name, unable to sleep at all.


	8. This Old Heart of Mine Been Broke a Thousand Times

“Are you sure you didn’t find Tony?” Jan asked, as Steve made sure his bag was securely fastened to his motorcycle.  
  
“Of course I’m sure,” Steve said shortly, because he knew he was terrible at lying, and knew Jan could tell.  “But I’m not going to give up looking until I find him.  Or at least, uh, find out what happened to him.”  
  
“Is he all right?” Jan said.  
  
“Jan,” Steve said.  “What did I just say?”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Jan said.  “I just want to know if he’s all right.  You can tell me that much, can’t you?”  
  
It was the genuine concern in her voice that made Steve raise his head and sigh.  “Jan,” he said.  “If Tony were all right, he’d be back here with us.  Don’t you think so?”  
  
She swallowed and sighed, took a step back.  “All right,” she said.  “Yeah.  I—yeah.”  She didn’t speak again until Steve had straddled his bike, revved her up, and then she called, “You treat him right, though, you hear?  Just tell him we miss him!”  
  
Steve drew his hand across his throat in an age-old ‘stop that” gesture, then raised his hand in farewell.  
  
He thought about what the hell he’d say to him the whole way back to Tony.  God, he’d done exactly what he’d been trying so hard not to do, he’d shouted at him, laid on the guilt about him not going back to be Iron Man again, like he’d been going down a checklist of everything he’d sworn not to do to Tony, even if he lost his temper.  And then the moment he did lose his temper, what happened?  Steve did every single damn one of them.  
  
Tony deserved better of him than that, and that was just the truth.  If he was really going to treat him right, like Jan had told him to, Steve needed to step up his game.  Do better.  A lot better.  
  
And he should have called Tony while he was gone, too, probably, but Steve hadn’t wanted to possibly give his location away, even risk it, with a call.  So he’d gone with the lesser of two evils and headed back to him as fast as he possibly could, but now he was full of a twisting, sick anxiety in the pit of his stomach.  He should have told Tony he was sorry again before he’d left.  He should have made sure Tony understood that he’d come back as soon as he could before he left.  He should have kissed him, for real, but he’d just shouted at him, and he hadn’t wanted to invade his personal space like that, make him feel even more intimidated and maybe violated, too.  He should have told him he loved him.  He should have made sure Tony knew he’d keep his secret for him, that he’d never willingly tell a soul.  
  
At least he’d left his dogtags with Tony.  It was impossible to misinterpret that gesture, wasn’t it?  Steve had worn them, ever since the war—after all, he’d been in plenty of fighting, since he’d been unfrozen, hadn’t he?  He might still need them for their intended purpose, to identify his mutilated body.  He knew plenty of folks who’d just line up for the pleasure of making them necessary, after all.  And part of him had clung to them, in a strange way, because, well—so many people saw Captain America, and wouldn’t have known Steve Rogers from Frank Sinatra.  Maybe part of him had always wanted to have them on him, just in case, because if he died, then they’d all know who he really was, in the end.  Steve Rogers’ name would be there, associated with him, and how he’d gone out.  It wouldn’t just be Cap, erasing him, replacing him, not completely.  Not forever.  
  
He’d given Tony a piece of himself.  But God, he should have been more clear, he should have stated things more clearly, he should have—he should have been kinder to him, gentler with him, God, why couldn’t he be gentler with him, ever, like he should have been in that flophouse stinking of drink, like he should have been after the time Tony had fought the Guardsmen and all those other people with his stolen designs, when they’d driven out to talk, like he should have been after the Supreme Intelligence, when Tony had gone into that bar to talk to him, despite the way every muscle in his body had frozen up with tension, hands shaking just at stepping inside.  Why couldn’t Steve _talk_ to him, tell him what he really meant to him?  Why did he always have to shut down, rage and snap at him?  Why couldn’t he be the kind and gentle lover Tony deserved?  
  
He would try harder, that was all.  Tony deserved that.  He deserved better.  
  
Steve thought about that all the way back, and by the time he got into town, he was practically vibrating out of his skin with anxious energy.  He parked his bike around the back of Tony’s apartment and took the stairs up to the room two at a time, half glad he’d gotten in late so Tony was pretty much sure to be there.  He might have pounded on the door a little hard, but, well, at least that would make sure Tony heard him, right?  
  
And sure enough, a moment later, Tony was fumbling at the door.  When he opened it, Steve was startled by how bad he looked—his skin was pale, and there were deep, bruised dark circles under his eyes, his hair riotously tousled.  “God, what is it, Carl,” Tony muttered, and then his eyes widened, his mouth went slack.  “S-Steve?” he stuttered.  
  
“Can I, uh,” Steve said, feeling awkward, suddenly.  “Can I come in?”  
  
“Sure,” Tony said, and practically tripped over his own feet trying to move backward, to give Steve space to step into the room, without taking his eyes off him.  Steve stepped into the room and closed the door behind them, then reached up, brushed his thumb, his fingers against Tony’s face.  
  
Tony bit his lip, his eyes wide, the set of his mouth somehow soft and vulnerable.  He was trembling.  
  
“I’m back,” Steve said.  “C’mere, fella.  I’m sorry I yelled.”  
  
Tony’s eyes were tight and liquid, filled with emotion, overwhelmed.  For a moment, all the color drained from his face, and Steve was afraid he might faint, then his hand fell to Steve’s forearm and squeezed.  “You’re back?” he said, hoarse and low, barely more than a whisper, a question.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said.  “I didn’t tell a soul you were here, though Jan is convinced you’re alive and I know where you are, apparently.  I’m supposed to tell you she misses you.  But I didn’t breathe a word of it, I swear.”  
  
A crooked little smile tugged at one corner of Tony’s lips.  “Sounds like Jan,” he said hoarsely, almost soundlessly, then closed his eyes, swayed on his feet.  “You’re here,” he said.  “I—I’m sorry, Steve.  I’m so sorry.  I know you must think I’m—I’m ten kinds of coward, and I’m—I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m so weak, I’m working on it, I swear—I know I can’t stay like this forever, I’m sorry I let you down, I know you must be—must be disgusted, disappointed,” he was swallowing hard, “and I know I’ve, I’ve never lived up to your expectations, but I—I’ll figure this out, Steve, I promise.  I’m just so sorry, and I—”  
  
“Hey,” Steve said, his chest aching, his throat sore with pain at what Tony was saying.  “Hey, I’m gonna stop you there.”  He tugged Tony in toward him, carefully ran his hand over his shoulder, before he curled both arms around him, pulled Tony in against his chest, kissed his temple.  “You’re all right,” he murmured, and it came out of him hoarse and heavy.  “You’re all right.  I’m sorry.  I hurt you again.”  
  
“I—no—” Tony said weakly.  “I mean—you didn’t say or do anything that wasn’t fair.”  
  
“Okay,” Steve said.  “Okay, mister.  We’re gonna need to have a little bit of a talk.”  He pushed Tony back gently, led him to the couch and sat him down, then sat down beside him.  He laid a hand on Tony’s knee, watched him shiver and bite his lip and look at Steve, then away, his eyes darting around the room, then back at Steve, then away.  
  
“You didn’t hurt me, Steve,” Tony said, in a tone of explaining something.  “And if you did, well, it wouldn’t have been undeserved.”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Steve said.  “Listen to me.  I know this—this isn’t an easy thing to talk about, but—okay, you know I was in the war, right?”  
  
Tony snorted a disbelieving little laugh.  “I’m pretty sure the whole world knows that, champ,” he said, but it was gentle, almost sweet, the way he said it.  
  
“Okay, yeah,” Steve said, with a rueful smile to acknowledge his point, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded.  “I saw a lot of things there.”  He reached out for Tony’s hand, curled his fingers around it, rubbed his thumb against the palm, the heel of it.  “One of the things I saw was how it would get to people.  Brave men would get to the point they just couldn’t go back out there, couldn’t stand the noise of the guns, the shelling.  They’d burst into tears sometimes.  Strong, brave guys, all right, Tony?  People I admired.  They’d be slowly worn down, and then they’d go to pieces, and forcing them back out into the field—yelling at them like General Patton did—beating them sometimes—it never helped anything.  It just got good men killed.  All right?”  He reached up, turned Tony’s face toward his.  “Listen,” he said.  “You were captured and tortured when you were barely a man, practically still a kid.  Don’t argue, listen to me.  Ever since then you’ve been throwing yourself into the thick of it.  And then someone takes you, and uses you, and messes with your mind, when your _mind_ is the one thing you use all day, every day, the one thing you rely on.”  He took both of Tony’s hands in his, squeezed the strong, scarred palms, the elegant fingers.  “Takes these and turns them against people you know and care about.  Tony, I’d be a terrible _commander_ if I turned up and just expected you to go back out there, now, a week from now, ever again, and I shouldn’t have ever expected it from you.  I’m damn sorry for it.”  
  
“I’m not,” Tony started, and his voice died in his throat.  His eyes were huge, fixed on Steve.  “I’m not like that, Steve,” he said.  “I’m not—not brave, not a hero.  I never fought.”  
  
“Tony, sweetheart,” Steve said, as gently as he could.  “I hope you realize how ridiculous that sounds coming from an Avenger who’s been active ever since the team started.  Should I give you a list of the military campaigns you’ve fought in?  Galactic Storm—the Kree-Skrull War—when we went up against Thanos—the Infinity War—”  
  
“Not as many as you,” Tony said, swallowing, and his throat worked, his long lashes feathering soft against his cheeks, fluttering unevenly, “and you’re not hiding in some hovel, scared of your own shadow.  You’re all right.”  
  
“I’m all right,” Steve said, “because I had a—a home, and a lot of people who cared about me, who listened when I was falling apart, and let me feel—feel like I wasn’t crazy.  Like I wasn’t weak.  Tony, one of those people was you.”  He squeezed his hands tightly.  “I—I wasn’t all right for a long time,” he said.  “Some days I’m still not—not so good.  You know that better than anyone.  I never talked about—about how I saw things, after I first woke up.  How I worried I was going crazy.”  He stared down at their linked hands, swallowed hard.  His throat hurt.  “And maybe going out and throwing myself into the fight every day,” he said, “it was how I coped, but maybe it wasn’t good for me.  And maybe it was the only thing in the world that would have helped, I don’t know, but Tony, I’m _me_.  We’re very different people.  We’re not the same.  You’ve always been someone who—who turns inward, who—who needs to fall in on himself sometimes.  That’s just—you’re not me.”  
  
Tony turned his face away, took a few quick, uneven breaths, his mouth working.  “I—I don’t know what to do with that, Steve,” he said, finally.  “I—part of me feels like that’s, that’s an excuse, maybe.  Like you’re giving me an out I don’t deserve.”  He reached out, squeezed Steve’s thigh, as if to comfort _him_ , and that simple gesture made Steve go warm all through, made his throat thicken, tight and stinging.  
  
“I thought you might say that,” Steve said.  It came out a little husky.  “No one’s harder on Tony Stark than Tony Stark.”  
  
Tony made a face at him, rolled his eyes.  
  
“It’s true,” Steve said.  He laid one hand, very carefully, on the back of Tony’s neck, between his shoulder blades.  “Tony,” he said, not quite sure how to say this, but sure now that he had to.  “You almost fainted when I suggested going back.  You went white as a sheet.”  
  
Tony flushed a hot, ugly red, shrugged Steve’s hand off him violently.  
  
“It’s a sign of—of battle fatigue,” Steve said.  “Of trauma.  You know what?  I’d bet you—I’d bet you one of Thor’s goats that he’d say the same thing.”  
  
“Oh, sure,” Tony said acidly.  “I’m sure Thor would be very impressed, after the thousand of years of battles he’s taken part in.”  
  
“Thor is the one who told me that you might need space if I found you!” Steve burst out.  “That I shouldn’t push!  That I should be gentle!”  
  
Tony stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, his face giving an expressive twist of disbelief.  “Thor said that?” he said.  
  
“Yes!” Steve said.  “He made me see that maybe you’d—you’d disappeared because of the trauma of what Kang had done to you.  Maybe—maybe he didn’t say it quite like that, you know Thor has his own way of expressing himself, but I got the message.  It was clear what he meant.”  
  
Tony turned his head, stared off into space.  “I—I don’t know what to say,” he said after long moments, his throat working.  “I—I just—I just don’t know, Steve.”  
  
“That’s fine,” Steve said, almost relieved.  “I just wanted you to listen.”  
  
“Okay,” Tony said.  “Message received.”  He sat there for a moment, then sagged back, almost going limp.  He tipped his head back against the back of the couch and closed his eyes.  “What do you want, Steve?” he asked.  His fingers came up, rubbed idly at a spot over his breastbone, and Steve realized with a sort of—hot, dizzying thrill, a tightening in his chest, against a heart that felt suddenly tender, almost bruised, almost painful with emotion, that he was playing at Steve’s dogtags with his fingers, under his shirt, curling his fingers against them.  “Why did you come back?”  
  
God, what was he supposed to say to that?  The hurt stung, flushed all over Steve’s skin, from his head to his toes.  “I love you,” he said, hurt, choked.  “I want to be with you.”  
  
“So you’re going to split your time between here and the Avengers?” Tony said.  “That’s gonna give my identity away, sooner or later.  And it seems like a good way to drive yourself crazy.”  
  
“So you don’t want to see me?” Steve said, gulping back the hot, acid tang of hurt.  He sat back, looked down at his hands.  He wanted to say that he wasn’t as unsubtle as all that—he did things on his own, as Cap, all the time.  It wouldn’t have to be that obvious.  But if Tony didn’t want to see him, there wasn’t really any point.  
  
“I never said that,” Tony said after a moment.  “I just don’t see what your endgame is here, Cap.  You’re supposed to be a master tactician.”  
  
“I haven’t thought about it,” Steve said, and even to his own ears he sounded pathetically small, small and young and stupid.  “I’m sorry.  All I wanted was to be with you.”  
  
“You want me to go back to the Avengers,” Tony said, dully.  “And it would solve all your problems.”  
  
“But not yours,” Steve said, and swallowed back against his aching heart, the way his heart felt like it was breaking, fracturing in his chest, with an effort of will.  “Tony—if you can’t see me, for your own good, if that would help you, that’s—that’s all right.  I’ll go back to the Avengers; I won’t bother you.  I’ll do whatever you need.  I’ll do whatever’s best for you.  I promise.”  
  
“That might be for the best,” Tony said, “but, yeah, well, it so happens I don’t want that.  I don’t want that at all.”  
  
Steve felt his eyes stinging, his face collapsing from relief, the way he panted for air loud even in his own ears.  “You don’t?” he said, and his voice came out thready and thin and husky, low.  
  
“I don’t,” Tony said.  He turned on the couch, climbed over Steve’s legs until he was straddling him, and Steve bit back a shocked moan, stared up at him.  Tony’s face was strange, vivid and stark, so pale and so bruised under his eyes that he looked almost livid, sick, almost feverish.  He reached up, curling a hand that felt hot and sweaty against Steve’s jaw, running his thumb over his chin, leaned forward and curled his hand around Steve’s wrist.  “Would you take me as a lover?” he murmured, almost challenging, voice broken and thick and low.  “Eddie Chaney in his small town, working at the autoshop, Captain America’s secret lover on the side.  Your dirty little secret.”  
  
“Never a dirty little secret,” Steve said, thickly, “even if I had to keep you secret for your own good, your safety.  Never dirty.  It wouldn’t be some kind of low, sordid thing, Tony.  It would be us, together.  What’s dirty about that?”  
  
“How could it not be low and sordid?” Tony muttered, his fingers clenching tight around Steve’s wrist.  “Captain America’s secret lover.  It sounds like a tabloid headline.  You’d have to hide things, and lie, and—”  
  
“I’d do it,” Steve said firmly.  “I’d get—get better at it.  I’d do it, for you.  I just want to do what you need, Tony, but—but I want to be with you, too.”  He swallowed hard, felt his eyes stinging.  “I’ll take what I can get.  I’ll take whatever I can get.”  
  
“I’m breaking you, too,” Tony said, voice low and soft and breaking over the words.  “I’m dragging you down to my level.”  His thumb dragged over Steve’s chin, brushed along his lips, and Steve shivered down to his toes, felt a tear break free to escape, running hot along his temple.  
  
“No,” he said.  “There’s no—nothing for me to be brought down to.  Tony, I love you.  That’s all.”  
  
“Love conquers all?” Tony said, mockingly.  “I don’t think so.”  
  
“You make it sound simplistic,” Steve said thickly, “but it’s not.  All it means is that I’m—I’m willing to work for this.  For you.  That’s all that means.  The Avengers come first, Tony, you know that, but then you.  I swear.  I promise.  Before anything else in my life.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure that’s not healthy, Steve,” Tony said softly, his thumb pushing roughly at Steve’s lower lip.  
  
“I just told you,” Steve said, and closed his eyes against the tears.  “I’m not the healthiest guy in the world.”  
  
“Well, neither am I,” Tony said, and curled his arm around Steve’s shoulders, against the back of his neck and leaned in, until his breath was feathering hot over Steve’s cheek, along his jaw, against his lips.  “Understatement of the goddamn decade.  What a pair we make, huh?”  
  
Steve bit his lip and nodded, not opening his eyes.  He didn’t want to fall apart.  Not in front of Tony.  Not right now.  He’d been trying to help him, to be there for him.  He needed to be stronger than this.  
  
“I’d be your secret lover, Steve,” Tony said.  “I’d be happy to be your little piece on the side.  You have to know that.”  
  
“Not my secret _lover_ ,” Steve choked out.  “My—my boyfriend.  My steady.  My _love_.  Listen to me, Tony.  Listen to what I’m saying.”  
  
“I am listening,” Tony said, and his voice had changed, gone thick and rough in a different way.  “I’m—I’m yours, you have to know that.  If you want me, I’m yours.”  
  
Steve found himself squeezing his hands at Tony’s hips, skimming them up until they were tugging at his collared work shirt, sliding up his back under it and his undershirt until he could touch bare, hot skin.  “I want to know that,” he mumbled, opening his eyes and peering up at Tony through the film of tears, blinking it back.  “Do I know that?”  
  
“You should,” Tony whispered.  “I’m yours, Steve.  Every bit of me. Even the parts I hate.  All yours.  Maybe you’ll find some use for them, for—for me, that I can’t.”  
  
“I can find a use for every part of you, Tony,” Steve whispered hoarsely.  “To love and cherish you.  Even the parts you think are—are awful, or cowardly, or that drive me up the wall.  Or even when you’re—you’re cruel.  Even if you hurt me.  Don’t you get that?”  He squeezed, roughly, at the curve of Tony’s hip, over the sloping curve of his backside.  
  
“I don’t know why,” Tony said, just as hoarse.  “But you can have them.  Have me.”  He leaned in, pressed his lips to Steve’s, hot and wet, dragging them open-mouthed and almost sloppy over Steve’s.  “Have me, Steve, champ,” he mumbled.  “I want to feel you.  If you want me, I want to feel you.”  
  
“Of course I want you,” Steve murmured, and it came out low and thick.  He tugged Tony closer, ran his palm up and down his spine.  “But are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” Tony said, and wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck, used the leverage and rocked down into him.  “I want you.  I want you to.”  
  
Steve had an idea that they probably shouldn’t just rush into sex like this, so soon after he’d come back, but he also couldn’t resist the way Tony asked him for it, scratchy and low and husky, or the way the hard length between his legs was already hot and throbbing against Steve’s own groin.  He slid his hands up and buried them in Tony’s hair, leaning up to kiss him with a groan, and Tony let him pull him down into it, pressing back eagerly.  
  
Steve hadn’t been 100% certain of what Tony was asking him to do, if he just wanted Steve to make love to him or he was being more specific in the way it sounded he was, but he definitely got the picture when Tony grabbed his hand and pulled it back around over the luscious curves of his bottom, pressed his fingers between them to the tight little hole there.  He could feel Tony clenched up and tight under his fingers, but Tony’s hold on his him was firm and insistent, not loosening until Steve started to rub his fingers against that tightly clenched opening, kissing him deeply the whole time, until both their breaths were coming unevenly and Tony was trembling against him, little low, tight whimpers breaking free from his throat every time Steve caressed his tight hole.  Very, very tight hole, and Tony’s whole body felt tense under his touch, drawn and coiled tight and jittery.  
  
Steve used his other hand to thumb Tony’s belt open, then to tug Tony’s shirt completely out of his work trousers, started undoing the buttons with that hand until it hung off of Tony’s still overly slender frame, kissing down his neck, lingering over the chain of his own dogtags because of the unexpected surge of heat, of emotion, seeing it around Tony’s neck sent through him, until Tony moaned and tilted his head back, swaying forward into him, Steve keeping his fingers moving, massaging between the lush cheeks of Tony’s rear the whole time.  Tony slid one hand down Steve’s front in return, rocked it against the tight, heavy heat tenting Steve’s trouser front, until Steve was moaning, could hear it loud in his own ears, in the room, loud enough that he felt his cheeks flush.  He leaned in again, mouthed wet kisses up Tony’s neck, feeling the scruffy stubble under his mouth and tongue, before he pressed his lips to Tony’s again.  
  
Eventually he coaxed them both to their feet and got Tony back across the room to the bed, where Tony fell willingly, though he watched him with dilated eyes and a visible swallow as Steve ran his hands down Tony’s legs and unbuttoned his pants slowly, making certain to caress the swell of Tony’s hard, no doubt aching cock through the cotton of his tight-fitting underpants as he did.  “So,” he said, and his voice came out so hoarse and low, God, even as he continued to caress the shape of Tony’s length, up and down, rubbing at his sensitive tip with his thumb through the fabric, “where did you put the lube around here?”  
  
Tony gasped, groaned, for a second, eyes wide, but then he seemed to register what Steve had asked and rolled over, fumbled at the old, dented nightstand, until he finally got the bottle out of the drawer.  He arched and shimmied his way out of his trousers before he handed it to Steve, then he hesitated, just for a moment, before he splayed his fingers under his boxer-briefs just for one more moment, against his skin, almost as if uncertain, before he pulled them down off over his legs.  
  
“You’re so beautiful,” Steve said fervently, looking down at him, the hot cock that had bobbed up against his pelvis, hot and a deep, dark red, the slim, neatly lean body revealed to his eyes as Tony pulled off his shirt and undershirt and lay back on the bed entirely naked—except for Steve’s dogtags.  God.  Tony shivered, down to his toes, eyes hot and intense on Steve as he leaned up and slid his hands up under Steve’s shirt.  They felt hot, too, and it was Steve’s turn to shiver as he pulled his own shirt off and undid his belt and tugged off his pants.  He draped them over a nearby chair, pulling a condom out of the back pocket as he did—there was nothing wrong with being prepared, after all—and Tony gave a little moan and reached out to him, before he bit his lip and curled his hand into the blankets as if to stop himself.  
  
Steve was there a moment later, stroking Tony’s legs, lying down beside him and reaching out to stroke Tony’s cock with one hand again, leaning in to kiss him.  He couldn’t take his eyes off of the dogtags around Tony’s neck.  “I’m right here,” he mumbled against Tony’s lips, and Tony moaned back in his throat, closing his eyes and arching up into the kiss, into the touches, his body trembling under Steve’s, as Tony’s hands cupped Steve’s head, curled against the back of it.  
  
When it came to sex, it wasn’t always easy for Steve to wait, but it was obvious to him already that Tony was too tight, too tense to rush things, at least if Tony wanted it like this, and he’d been pretty clear about wanting it like this.  Steve didn’t stop kissing him even as he got his fingers slick with lube and reached back down between Tony’s legs, still stroking Tony’s cock with his other hand as he did.  
  
Tony had been so in control a few of the other times they’d done this, but this time, as Steve stroked his cock slowly and circled his hole with lube, massaging long and slow before he even tried to press inside, he trembled and gasped, melting quickly into a desperate, wild-eyed mess, eyes wide and mouth soft and wet as he panted under Steve’s touch, body all clumsy writhing and liquid shivers under Steve’s hands.  Steve could see it as Tony clenched his hands in the blankets, as he tried to claw back some control, and could see that there was already wet clinging to his lashes, so he backed off a bit, leaned forward and feathered kisses over Tony’s temples and cheeks, back down to his lips, as he lifted his hand to stroke his stomach and hips rather than his cock.  
  
Tony just moaned and leaned up into Steve, splaying one hand across the back of his neck.  Steve could feel, taste, his gasp against his own lips as he finally pushed his lube-wet finger in against his hole, easing it forward slowly, back and forth, until he felt Tony give way enough under it to let him in.  Steve’s dogtags were a hard flat press into his breastbone, tight against his own chest, and Tony’s, warm with their bodies.  
  
He was determined to take his time, and sure enough, Tony started off by tensing up again, panting almost nervously against Steve’s lips, as soon as he had his finger inside him.  That obvious spike of alarm helped put a damper on Steve’s own arousal, and he took care to kiss Tony even more softly, but deeply, working his mouth open beneath his own just as he slowly circled his finger and worked him open for it, too, pressing it deep inside Tony in slow, widening circles.  
  
It seemed to take forever before Tony tensed and let out a sharp, quavering gasp, an abortive little moan into Steve’s mouth, jerking up against him sharply enough to send Steve’s dogtags sliding across his chest, and Steve knew he’d found that sweet spot that made the initial push and stretch of penetration feel so much better all at once.  He didn’t go after it immediately, just kept swirling his finger slowly, but he let it press against it on every pass, and before long Tony had relaxed perceptibly under him, trembling and moaning on each unsteady breath, cock hard as anything again, flushed so deep and dark and red and leaking just a tiny little bit against Tony’s skin, leaving him smeared with a little glistening hint of wet.  Steve went back to stroking it, teasing gently but firmly over the head, rolling his hand up and down the shaft, just to get Tony relaxed enough that he could work another lube-slick finger into him.  
  
This was a gesture on Tony’s part, Steve realized that.  Tony giving up control—Tony letting him have all if this, all of _him_ , in a way he hadn’t before.  So Steve wanted to be especially gentle, and careful.  He wanted to take his time, make absolutely sure this would be particularly good for Tony.  But it was hard to pull his eyes away from the way Tony reacted beneath his fingers, the feeling of his own fingers deep inside him, massaging inner walls that were like firm velvet clutching at him, clenching down on him, hot and so damn tight it almost hurt to press his fingers deeper at first, the _sight_ of his fingers rocking into Tony’s body as he gasped and moaned and pressed down against him, grasping at Steve as he did, eyes going wide every time Steve rocked his fingers against that sensitive spot inside, Steve’s dogtags still shifting against his chest with every rock and quiver and jolt of Tony’s body.  He had to bite his lips, rub at his own cock a little with one hand just to take the edge off, before he got hold of himself again and went back to Tony.  
  
Tony stayed tight and tense for a good long while, alternating between knuckling into the bedspread with a tight, white-knuckle grip and clutching at Steve, his jaw tight as he trembled and jerked with every movement of his fingers, even as he whined low and hoarse in pleasure and his cock would jerk and leak when Steve touched his sweet spot inside, rolled his fingers against it.  It was obvious that he hadn’t done it like this in a long, long time, and Steve was slow and gentle and inexorable because that’s how he’d want someone to do it to him, if he was so tight and tense and couldn’t relax, constantly brushing kisses over Tony’s cheeks and jaw and neck and shoulders as he did.  It was only after Steve had three slick, dripping, lubed up fingers inside him that he took a deep, shuddering breath and something inside him finally seemed to relax, his lips parting, soft and bitten and puffy-red, as he gazed up at Steve, eyes heavy and half-open.  “Honey,” he mumbled.  “Steve.  Sunshine.  Champ.”  
  
Steve pressed a kiss against the pulse in his neck, soft but still firm, a reassurance and a promise all in one, dragged it down over the chain of his dogtags.  “Right here,” he said.  
  
“You’re taking f-forever,” Tony said, loose and slurring.  
  
“’Course,” Steve said.  “I want to take my time with you.  I have time.  You don’t rush through making love to your sweetheart.  If you have time you make it last.”  
  
Tony’s face twisted and shuddered, and he turned his head, pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder, breathing unevenly.  “I—I—I don’t know how much, much more of this I can take,” he mumbled.  There was a tight whine in the words, caught behind them, like he didn’t want to let it out but almost couldn’t help it.  
  
“Just making sure you’re stretched,” Steve promised him.  “Making sure you’re ready for me.  Almost there.  Just don’t want to hurt you.  You can take a little more.”  Tony was so damn tight, so tense—he seemed to keep clamping down, going back to that stretched, quivering, crushing tightness, every time Steve thought he’d got him nicely loosened up, but he felt like he was getting somewhere now.  He’d just never been with a man quite _so_ tense and clamped down tight around his fingers, and it was scaring him a little, because he knew the size of his cock, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Tony at all.  He curled an arm around Tony’s shoulders and squeezed, rocking and twisting his fingers a little faster now, avoiding Tony’s sweet spot with his fingers as he stretched him.  Tony moaned, a soft little hitching whimpering noise in the back of his throat, and shivered, but he wrapped an arm around Steve and held on, pressing his face into the hinge of his shoulder where it met his neck.  He was opening up faster like that, and Steve was generous with the lube, getting him all sloppy and slick, even all the way deep inside.  
  
He kept at it for a while, even still, holding Tony close before he pushed him back to the bed and covered him with his body, feeling his own dogtags rubbing against his chest, kissing him deeply, teasing Tony’s tongue with his, playing it over his and drawing Tony into a teasing back and forth, keeping his fingers moving inside him, pumping gently in a way that was loosening Tony nice and quick, even as he slicked himself with lube with one hand, managed to get the condom open and rolled onto his cock with the same hand.  He didn’t want to let Tony get all tense again, but he also didn’t want to scare or startle him, so when he was just about ready to push in, he murmured, “You’re sure?” against Tony’s lips.  
  
“I’m—I’m okay,” Tony said.  His eyes were blown wide so that they looked dark, his mouth bitten and swollen, puffy-soft, and his voice was thick.  “Please, Steve.  Take me.  Have me.  I want to—I want to feel you.”  
  
“Okay, sweetheart,” Steve said.  “I’m right here, I promise.”  He tugged his fingers out and used them to guide his cock into place all in the same moment, pushing Tony’s legs, his thighs, up and back with his hands to rock him into position for the penetration, and then he was pushing in against him.  
  
For a moment he really did worry that he wasn’t going to fit, that even with all the preparation Tony was going to be too tense and too tight to let his over-large dick into his hole.  It didn’t go in at first, just rubbed back and forth over Tony’s loosened hole, and Tony’s eyes widened hugely.  But then he sighed out a long, low, gasping breath against Steve’s lips, and as Tony’s eyelids fluttered and his mouth sagged open, the tight tension in his body relaxed, his hole softening just enough, opening up for him so that Steve could push inside with a firm, grinding roll of his hips.  
  
Tony whimpered immediately, his whole body clamping down on him, and Steve moaned as pleasure shot down to his spine, went electric in his cock, as those tight muscles bore down on that most sensitive place just behind the head of his cock.  But he was inside Tony now, the full head of his cock past his tight ring of muscle, and Steve just took a deep breath and fisted his own hands in the blankets and kissed Tony slow and soft until he felt him start to relax.  
  
“God,” Steve murmured, awestruck.  “You feel perfect.  So good.  So tight, Tony, God.”  
  
A soft, slight, wondering sort of smile touched Tony’s lips, almost shy.  “Really?” he said.  “It feels okay?  You’re—I mean—” he lost his voice on a groan, then said, “I’m not too tight?”  
  
“No,” Steve said, on another tight, painful groan.  “Not—not too tight, no.  You’re awful tight, but it’s good, it’s good, Tony.  You feel so good.”  
  
“Oh, good,” Tony breathed.  He relaxed inside a little more.  His hard, pretty cock had gone mostly soft against his pelvis, Steve noticed, but that was probably okay—he’d been with more than one fella who went soft with the initial penetration, but were more than raring to go as things heated up again later.  
  
“Can I move?” he asked, brushing his lips lightly against Tony’s, letting their noses brush, their mouths linger with warmth breath against each other.  Tony hesitated, his brow creasing, and that was his answer.  “Just let me know,” Steve told him, and brushed a kiss along his brow, just concentrating on staying still.  
  
After a long moment, Tony raised his own hands, curled them around his knees and tugged them up toward his chest.  Steve brushed his lips to his knee in a gesture of thanks, but still didn’t move.  He didn’t move until Tony breathed out a soft, aching, “Move, Steve, please.  It’s all right.”  
  
“Doesn’t hurt?” Steve asked, but he started moving just as Tony had asked, very, very carefully, barely rocking into him.  
  
“N-no, no, doesn’t hurt,” Tony slurred.  His mouth was open and very wet, his eyes wide again.  
  
“You’ve gotta tell me if it does,” Steve told him, and then let himself start to settle into a slow rocking movement, a rhythm, pushing a little bit deeper inside Tony with each one.  
  
He’d thought, before, that Tony would be sweet for his cock, and he hadn’t been wrong.  He was incredibly tight, like a vise clamping down around him, but he was sweet, too, jerking and shuddering, juddering around him with every thrust, his walls clenching down on Steve impossibly good, each spasm of pressure shooting through him with a swell of hot tight, impossible pleasure, squeezing at Steve’s cock like his insides were milking it, and Tony’s eyes kept fluttering, long lashes looking so, so soft and dark against his cheeks.  When Steve reached down, curled his hand around his dogtags and tugged, Tony moaned, mouth soft and wet and open, eyelids drooping and fluttering as he looked up at Steve, arching up as Steve tugged on them lightly.  He used them to tug Tony down, just a little, into his thrusts, and Tony cried out, loud and hoarse, and his cock jerked.  Steve felt a wave of heat, of desire, wash over him, center in his cock, in response, and couldn’t help thrusting deeper, burying himself deeper inside of Tony.  When Steve moved that hand from clenching his dogtags to wrap one arm around Tony again, he moaned, practically cried out all over again, and pressed against him, chest to chest.  Steve’s dogtags felt hot against his skin.  Tony clutched at him again, and it filled up Steve’s chest with the tight, tight pressure of emotion.  
  
He did his level best to hold off for as long as he could, but he was doomed from the start not to last very long.  Tony was just too sweet and tight and warm and arching beneath him, gasping and rocking on each of Steve’s thrusts in as if in shock at the feeling, but there was pleasure in it, too, as if the shock was that it actually felt good.  His cock quickly hardened again, and Steve was glad of it, reaching down to stroke and jack Tony in his hand as he thrust into him, faster and faster as Tony loosened up.  
  
Even with that help, Tony’s lovely hot cock in his hand, (so pretty and well-proportioned), Steve came before Tony did.  He lost himself in the sensations, and he felt himself going faster and faster, felt himself gasping and clutching at the bed, at Tony’s hand, as pleasure exploded through him, so he couldn’t even see, nothing but white stars behind his eyes, trying to keep his speed slow enough that it wouldn’t hurt Tony, at least—and then he came, spilling in hot, viscous spurts into the condom, and Steve felt himself fall onto his side, into the bed, beside Tony, gasping for breath.  
  
“O-oh,” Tony said.  He sounded breathless.  
  
Steve pulled himself back from the hot, sweet fire of orgasm just enough to give Tony’s cock a gentle stroke, thumbing up over the head, until Tony was quivering.  He pulled out of him, caught himself on one arm when he wanted to just pitch forward, still lightheaded and dizzy from his orgasm, then leaned in, slid two fingers back into Tony’s hot, clutching hole, pushed insistently, long and hard, into him, against that sweet spot, then started to circle his fingers, bowing his head just enough to get his mouth on Tony’s cock and suck.  
  
Tony’s cock felt just as good under his mouth as the rest of him did, all velvety hot skin and the taste and scent of musk and firm, steely length, as Steve had discovered when he’d sucked him before.  Steve sucked and sucked, curled his tongue around the head and pressed in with his fingers, again and again and again, and eventually he heard Tony gave a gasping cry, his fingers tightened in Steve’s hair, as he came.  
  
Steve choked a little; he always did, but at least he was able to control himself not to make a big show of it.  He swallowed, because he wanted to taste Tony, the bitter tang of him, slightly musky and thick, then sucked Tony gently through his aftershocks, pulling his fingers gently out of him so he could squeeze at the base of Tony’s cock he hadn’t reached with his mouth and stroke him gently through the rest of the orgasm.   When he heard Tony whine under him, tense again as if in pain, he pulled off and stroked a gentle hand through Tony’s hair, moving up his body to kiss at one of his nipples, at his collarbone, at his shoulder, against the chain of his dogtags, before he lay back down and started petting Tony’s hair in earnest.  
  
“Oh,” Tony said, again.  His eyes were glassy and wet, when Steve looked, and his face looked blown, utterly, open and slack, relaxed and almost painfully open, like ecstasy had torn him apart and left him bleeding and raw, with no defenses left.    
  
His St. Sebastian, Steve thought again.  He stroked his hair, kissed his temple.  It was wet with tears.  
  
“Oh, Steve,” Tony choked.  “S-Steve—oh—honey—I—I—oh, wow.”  
  
Steve sat up just enough to pull the condom off, tie it off, and then leaned over and dumped it in the wastebasket.  “Any good, then?” he asked, smiling a little in pleasure, and a little bit of pride.  That hadn’t gone half badly.  His voice came out rough, hoarse and very low, and he leaned back in, stroked one hand down over Tony’s chest, couldn’t resist, feeling the warmth and wet of his sweat, the prickles of his damp chest hair under his skin.  
  
“S-so good,” Tony moaned, choking on it a little, like he was choked up.  “I, I—I’m sorry,” he slurred out after that, eyes squeezing shut.  “I—haven’t done—haven’t done that for a long time.”  
  
“Thank you,” Steve murmured, letting his hand slide up to cup Tony’s cheek, against his jaw, “for letting me.  For letting me be inside you like that, Tony.  It felt amazing.  You felt amazing.”  
  
Tony rolled over, hid his face against the pillow, but Steve thought he was smiling.  “Aww, Steve, c’mon,” he mumbled, as if there was something ridiculous about Steve telling him how good he’d felt, how much he’d pleased him, how wonderful it had been.  Steve leaned forward, stroked his back, pressed a kiss to his shoulder.  Steve’s dogtags were still around Tony’s neck.  He’d never get tired of seeing that, he already knew it.  
  
“You really did,” he said.  “So perfect for me.  I’ll remember that forever, Tony.  I’m honored you let me.  Thank you so much.”  
  
“You’re—I—” Tony stuttered, then gave a tremulous little laugh.  “I guess—you’re welcome?  It was—it was good for me, too.  I—I mean, asked, didn’t I?”  
  
“I’m glad it was good,” Steve said quietly, hoping it wasn’t too obvious to Tony how worried he’d been about that.  
  
“It was wonderful, sunshine,” Tony said, slurring and soft and rough, and when Steve put both arms around him again, he came into Steve’s arms willingly, yawning.  Steve pressed another kiss to his hair and held him close.  
  
They fell asleep like that, for a while, and only woke up later that night.  Steve felt disoriented at first, then realized that Tony was shifting under his arm.  At first he thought he was shaking, another nightmare, but then he realized that Tony was sitting up, wincing a little as he did, knuckling sleep out of his eyes then covering his mouth on another yawn.  He almost jolted when he looked down and saw Steve, and then he smiled, soft and alive and real, small and almost private, tucked into the corners of his mouth, and Steve thought he’d never seen a more beautiful expression on his face.  He reached up, let his fingers trace it, softly, and Tony started, almost self-consciously turned his face away.  He tugged at his hair with one hand, fingers tight through the thick strands.  Steve could see the little marks of tears around the edges of his eyes, even as he let his hand drop, took Tony’s wrist in his hand and rubbed his thumb across the pulse.  He kept looking at his dogtags, still hanging around Tony’s neck, against Tony’s hairy chest.  
  
“I guess I fell asleep,” Tony said, sounding sheepish, embarrassed.  His fingers came up, tangled with Steve’s dogtags, thumb rubbing along the chain.  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pass out on you like—like that.”  
  
“I did, too,” Steve said.  He reached out with one hand, curled it over Tony’s waist.  “Not just you.”  
  
Tony’s eyes softened as he looked at him.  “I—yeah,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.  “I—I just—thank you for—thank you for that, Steve.”  
  
“Honestly, Tony,” Steve said, on a little laugh, “it was my pleasure, trust me.”  At least that got a smile out of Tony in return.  “I didn’t hurt you though, did I?” he asked, seriously, stroking his back with his fingers.  He’d seen that little wince.  
  
“No,” Tony said, as if almost surprised he’d asked.  “Not at all.  I just—it’s been a long time since—the last time.  It feels weird, like—like I forgot what to expect.  And you’re—” he gave a shaky little laugh.  “You’re a sizable guy, stud.”  
  
“That’s why I wanted to make sure I didn’t hurt you,” Steve said, frowning a little as he rubbed his hand over Tony’s thigh.  “You’re sure?”  God, he knew how big he was.  If Tony hadn’t done it in a long time—he’d probably felt huge, almost inhuman.  
  
Tony smiled at him.  “Very sure,” he said.  “You did a good job getting me ready.  It doesn’t hurt, Steve, really.  I’m fine.”  
  
Well, that was his prerogative, Steve thought.  It was Tony’s body, so he would know.  He still squeezed Tony’s thigh, gently.  “Let me know if you need anything,” he said.  “A massage, maybe.”  
  
“Oh, jeez, Steve,” Tony said, and turned his face away in that quick, self-conscious jerky movement again.   “I’m fine, I promise.  I—I, honestly, I—I knew how big you were.  I—well, I didn’t expect it to be that good.”  
  
“Just as long as you’re sure,” Steve told him, feeling a warm flush of pleasure, again, that Tony had thought it was good.  _That good._  
  
“I’m sure,” Tony said.  “I—God, Steve, you’ve had a long trip.  With sex at the end of it, I—do you want something to eat, maybe?”  
  
“Maybe after a shower,” Steve said with a yawn and stretch of his own.  He managed to convince Tony to shower with him again (Tony lingered over the dogtags after he took them off, left them on the sink, as if he hadn’t wanted to take them off at all, and that made Steve’s heart pound, tight and heavy in his chest), and put his arms around him, pulled him back against his body, kissing his shoulders, his ears, his neck, until Tony chuckled and returned the embrace, pressing close with a sigh.  He noticed Tony was still a little wet around the eyes, and sometimes he’d sniff, a little, and he just got his hand up around the back of his neck and held him, squeezing gently.  
  
At least, Steve thought, Tony let him wash his hair again, sudsing it up gentle and slow until Tony was shivering against him, under his hands, his head still down on Steve’s shoulder, massaging his scalp more than just washing it, then gently rinsing it out.  Tony swayed against him, hands tight against his back, and sighed softly as Steve ran a hand through the wet strands after rinsing it, tousled it gently.  After they were out of the shower, they both threw on some pajamas, and Tony made them both quick sandwiches with what he had in the refrigerator, then sat down, rubbing his eyes again, not quite meeting Steve’s eyes as Steve took the first bite of his, thanking Tony at least three times for the gesture.  “Sorry I was such a wreck tonight,” Tony said in a low, soft voice, after a moment, playing idly with his fork, pressing his finger against the tines.  “I—I guess I had too much time to think when you were gone.  But I didn’t—I don’t want to be that dependent on you, and having you around to bring me out of a—a funk.  That’s not fair to either one of us.”  
  
“You’re going through a lot right now,” Steve said.  That was all he really had to say, on that.  “I don’t mind.”  
  
“Well, I do,” Tony said, a little fiercely.  
  
“All right, Tony,” Steve said.  “All right.  But I shouldn’t have left you so abruptly, or—or yelled at you like that, so I can see why you were feeling maybe a little rough.  A little raw.”  
  
“It wasn’t . . .” Tony started, but Steve cut him off.  
  
“Yes, it was,” he said.  “Don’t start.  Let me admit it, all right?”  
  
After a moment of looking down at his sandwich and not eating it, Tony said, “We just got our wires crossed, I guess.  I, um.”  He pulled one of the crusts off one of his pieces of bread, and Steve could see him swallow.  “I don’t want that to happen again.”  
  
“Me neither,” Steve agreed, with relief that at least Tony wasn’t trying to argue him on that one again.  
  
“So we should talk about this,” Tony said, with a minute gesture of his fingers, between the two of them.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve said, and swallowed a bite of his sandwich. That was—well, it was fair.  Tony had a point.  “I guess we should.”  
  
“Are we still boyfriends?” Tony asked, soft and low, and Steve just stared at him.  
  
He’d given Tony his dogtags.  Tony was still wearing them, around his neck, still visible under his thin white t-shirt, because he’d put them back on, after the shower, looking hesitantly at Steve as he did it as if he’d demand them back from him now.  What did Tony _think_ that meant?  What did Steve have to say or do to make him see what he was doing here?  
  
“Yeah, I mean, I thought so,” he said, a little hurt despite himself, and firmly tamping down on the way it wanted to turn into anger.  
  
“Oh, okay,” Tony said.  “I—I got that wrong, I guess,” he added quietly.  “I think I um—maybe jumped to the conclusion that you were going to leave me, and it—well, I missed you,” he said, awkwardly.  
  
Oh.  Steve’s anger melted away, transformed into sympathy.  After everything Tony had told him about his romantic past—yeah, he could see why he might have jumped ahead to that idea.  He’d even said, hadn’t he, that he expected Steve to regret him—it wasn’t a big jump at all to expecting Steve to leave him, was it?  “I’m sorry,” he said softly, aching, and meant it.  He reached out, covered Tony’s hand with his.  “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”  If Tony had been left uncertain, that just meant Steve hadn’t been clear enough.  
  
“No, no,” Tony said.  “It’s not—not you.  My stupid mistake.  I was—beating myself up over not being able to suit up again, and—and projecting that onto you, a little, I guess.”  His hand twisted against Steve’s, and he looked down, like he was ashamed.  
  
“It’s not stupid, Tony,” Steve said firmly.  
  
“I thought you’d be so disgusted with me, you know?” Tony murmured, barely audible, through lips that looked nerveless, pale.  He swallowed, anxiously.  
  
Oh, Tony.  “Well, I wasn’t disgusted,” Steve said.  “I hope I’ve been able to clear that one up.  The only thing I am, Tony, is worried about you.  And I would be wherever you were, whether I knew where you were not.  I hope you realize that.  Because I care about you.”  
  
Tony picked at a hangnail on his thumb, not looking at him, tugged at the dogtags around his neck, curling his hand around them.  “Yeah, um,” he said, and swallowed hard again.  “I worry about you, too.”  He pushed his hands flat, took a deep breath, and then took a bite of his sandwich, Steve thought just to have something to do with himself.  
  
He finished his own sandwich, got both of them glasses of water, leaving one hand on Tony’s shoulder, tousling his hair, as he got up to get them, then sat back down and waited for a while, until Tony had taken a few more bites.  
  
“Yeah, um, okay,” Tony said, then.  “So, boyfriends, yeah.  I—I just—I really—really care about you, Steve.  You know how,” he swallowed again, hard, “you know how I love you.  I just—I don’t know what I’m doing with myself,” he said that looking miserable, looking down at the table, “let alone you.”  
  
Steve wished Tony would—could, maybe—come home to the mansion, where he could take his time to heal and recover in his childhood home, with his friends, and family like Jarvis around him.  People who cared about him.  But maybe the mansion no longer felt safe for Tony; maybe it just felt like a reminder of the horrible things he’d been made to do there.  Maybe Kang had violated it for him, too.  
  
It was his _childhood home_. Steve wanted to wring Kang’s neck.  But he wasn’t there right then, and that wouldn’t help Tony, would it?  Or help them figure things out.  He sighed, blew his breath out long and slow.  
  
“You have time,” Steve said.  “Like I said, I’ll be with you if you want me.  You can take all the time in the world if that’s what you need, and I’ll still want to be with you.”  
  
“Well, I might not, actually,” Tony said with a tight, rueful, self-deprecating twist of a smile.  “Have all the time in the world, I mean.  Rhodey called me earlier today.  Morgan’s making noise again, about my estate, getting more of it ceded to him.  Mostly, he wants my designs.  He’s no inventor, himself, and bringing Stark designs into Stark-Fujikawa—well, that would help his position in the company quite a bit.  Give him that extra boost.  Right now they just employ him because they like the optics, a Stark working for them.  Kenjiro Fujikawa’s no fool, and definitely not enough of one to give Morgan any real power, but Stark designs are enough to tempt him.  So, anyway.  It makes me think Morgan might think I’m alive.  He’s trying to get what he can, lock it up so that if I do come back from the dead, at the very least I’ve got a hell of a legal fight on my hands, and at worst—best for him—he already has it all.  So I’m thinking he might, um, not that I want to slander my own blood, but I feel like it’s fairly likely he might send someone to kill me.  It would be most convenient for him.  Well, most convenient for him would be to have me locked up somewhere making him designs while everyone else _thought_ I was dead, but I’m not sure he’s stupid enough to think that would work.”  
  
“Tony,” Steve said, shocked and horrified.  He squeezed at Tony’s hand.  It was just—it was so awful, to expect that from your only living family.  He’d known Morgan Stark was a snake, but hearing Tony just lay it out like that, in that wry, even voice, like it wasn’t even a surprise, like it didn’t bother him at all anymore, shook him.  
  
He just wanted so much better for Tony.  
  
It was all right, Steve told himself.  The Avengers were Tony’s family, and even if he didn’t go back to them, or reveal his identity—well, there was Ms. Potts (Potts-Hogan?) and Mr. Hogan and Lieutenant Rhodes.  And there was Steve.  They were a better family than God-damned Morgan Stark, Steve was sure of that.  They’d be there for Tony.  He curled both his hands around Tony’s and squeezed again.  
  
Tony just made a face and shrugged, but he looked touched, his eyes a little tight around the edges with it and his face softer than usual.  Steve rubbed his thumb up and down the heel of Tony’s palm, against his thumb, and Tony shivered under him, looked up at Steve a little hesitantly, eyes fluttering and wide.  “So,” Steve said.  “What’s that mean?  What’s the plan?”  
  
“Well, it’s most important to me that no one here gets hurt,” Tony said, and Steve nodded.  He would have said that Tony’s life was most important to him, and his well-being, but that was a close second, always.  “So—if someone shows up—I’ll probably suit up and lead them away from the town.”  He took a deep breath.  “I, um, I’m having some problems with—God, this sounds so stupid—I mean, it’s been hard for me to—to even think about using the repulsors in um, in any kind of offensive capacity, so I might be—I might be pretty useless in a fight, so.  Not to put any pressure on you, but I would appreciate some backup on that.  Cap.”  He gave Steve a tremulous little smile.  
  
“Of course,” Steve said.  “Of course, you’ve got me, Tony.  Anything you need.”  
  
“Thanks, Steve,” Tony said, breathily, a little throaty.  His fingers squeezed Steve’s, curling around them gently.  “Anyway, before everything else, I—I have to deal with this.  First of all.  Then—only after that can I, I think about anything else.  But—but I’d like to—”  He shrugged, looking a little lost.  “I don’t know.  I guess—you’ve said already that you don’t really have an endgame in mind but I—I don’t want to pressure you, but—I think we should figure out some things between us.”  He looked honestly sick at the thought, though.  
  
Steve reached for Tony’s other hand, held them both in his and stroked the backs of his fingers, down over his knuckles, with his hands.  “I want to be with you, Tony,” he said, and swallowed.  “That’s all I want.  Sure, yeah, I’d like it if we could—could go back and be Avengers together, that—it would feel like a dream, too good to be true,” he bent his head and pressed his lips to Tony’s fingers, kissing them softly, over the knuckles, and Tony gave a quavery little breath, before he squeezed Tony’s hands and brought them down again, “but if you—you can’t do that, you can’t do that.  Just tell me what you want from me, and I’ll give it to you if I can.”  
  
Tony breathed unsteadily.  “It’s hard for me to think that I can have what I want,” he said, softly.  “It feels so impossible.  How can I—can I have you, and not the Avengers?  Not be Iron Man?”  He pulled one hand out of Steve’s, pressed it to his lips in a fist.  “I don’t know,” he said.  
  
“Tony,” Steve said, very seriously, curling his fingers around Tony’s wrist on the hand he still held, stroking there gently until he was sure he had Tony’s attention, “I love you, not Iron Man.”  He gave a rueful smile.  “These days, anyway, once I figured out Iron Man was you—well, it’s been you, Tony.  It’s always been you, for me.  Even when I didn’t realize it.”  
  
Tony bit his lip, and looked down.  “I guess it feels like—like—like I shouldn’t be rewarded for avoiding my responsibilities by getting to keep this—you,” he said.  “But, I, um, that’s my problem, not yours, obviously, handsome.”  
  
“I can see how you might feel that way,” Steve allowed.  “But it’s not true.  It’s not about rewards, or—or deserving.  I’m here, fella.  I mean that.  I’m here.  I’m here for _you_.”  
  
“I—I’m sorry I’ve had such a hard time believing in it,” Tony mumbled.  “In—in you.  In—us.  It must be hard on you.  I’m sorry.”  
  
Steve gave a rueful little smile that came out as a wry, self-deprecating laugh despite himself.  “Well, it hasn’t been easy,” he said, honestly.  “But it’s been harder on you.”  He squeezed his hand.  “You’re the one who suffers the most when you—you do that to yourself.”  
  
Tony looked at him like he wasn’t quite sure what Steve meant by that, then sighed.  “You’re so kind to me,” he said quietly.  
  
Steve curled his hand a little bit more around Tony’s.  “Well, I love you,” he said.  “But I haven’t always been kind.  I know that.  I’m trying.  You—” his throat suddenly felt thick.  “You deserve kindness, Tony.  You deserve someone to be kind to you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, so do you,” Tony said.  “And I’m afraid I haven’t been.”  
  
“You’ve been so good to me,” Steve said, feeling overcome with emotion again, throat thick and eyes stinging.  “Don’t worry about that.”  
  
“I’m starting to think I’m not the only one starved for affection here,” Tony said, with a crooked, lopsided smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.  “Aww, Steve, sweetheart.  I always want to be kind to you, but I haven’t always been, either, have I?  I’m afraid I might put you through more hell if you stay with me.  I’m not in any—any condition to be good to anyone.  Good for anyone.  I don’t want to hurt you.  I don’t want to ruin us before we even get started.”  
  
“You won’t,” Steve said, instantly, desperately.  He squeezed Tony’s hand.  He couldn’t leave Tony now, not when he needed him.  “You won’t ruin us.”  
  
“Easy to say,” Tony muttered.  “Harder to do.”  But he didn’t pull away from Steve’s hand, either.  “Would you really take me as I am?” he asked, after a moment, and his voice sounded rough, unsteady.  “Not as ‘Tony Stark’—” Steve could practically hear the self-mocking quotations he’d put that in, “but as—as this?  Just this.  Not—not Iron Man, not anything.”  
  
“You’re plenty of something, Tony,” Steve said.  “Eddie.  Whatever you want me to call you.  You’re you.  Of course I’d take you.  I’d take you, all of you, just as you are, and I’d be glad of it.  I’d be grateful every day to have you.”  
  
“Tony is fine,” Tony said, and smiled slightly, weakly.  “Rhodey sometimes calls me Tones.  Or T.”  
  
“I could do that,” Steve said.  He liked the idea, of using nicknames like that for Tony.  “Tones, huh?  What about sweetheart?”  
  
Tony smiled at him, his face still tight with emotion.  “I love you, babydoll,” he murmured.  “Sweetheart is—is great.  Yeah.”  
  
“I love you, too,” Steve said, and pulled him in, slightly, leaned over the table, standing up enough to touch their lips together, gentle and soft, just for a moment, before he smiled down at him.  Tony smiled up at him, his eyes full and soft, then looked down again, biting his lip.  Steve brushed his lips across his forehead in another soft kiss, then sat back down.  
  
“I guess,” Tony said quietly, hoarse and raw, “you know I’m a mess and want me anyway so—so who am I to argue?  It’s your choice, and I—I can’t take that away from you.”  His voice went even quieter.  “Not when I want you as much as I do.  I want you, too.”  
  
“We’ll do this how you want it, Tony,” Steve promised him.  
  
“Okay,” Tony muttered, “but I don’t know what I want.”  He swallowed again.  
  
“Can we figure it out later?” Steve asked, and Tony bit his bottom lip again, then shrugged, smiling a little sadly at Steve.  
  
“I guess we’ll have to,” he said.  “Are you—are you planning to stay?  At least for a while?”  
  
“Yes,” Steve said.  “I mean—at least until I have to leave again, for the Avengers.”  
  
Tony swallowed and nodded.  
  
“And eventually,” Steve said, and gently as he could, trying not to sound harsh or judgmental about this at all, “I’ll need to go back to patrolling as Captain America—doing my part.  You know that.  But I can take a break for right now.”  
  
“Yeah, I—I know,” Tony said, softly.  “I know that.  It’s—it’s who you are.”  
  
_It’s who you are, too_ , Steve thought, but he couldn’t say that.  It wouldn’t be fair to Tony, not now.  “Yeah,” he said, finally, a little heavily.  “But I’ll still want you, too.  I’ll always want you.”  
  
“You can’t promise that,” Tony said, with a tragic little smile.  “You can’t promise you won’t get tired of me.  Especially when I’m—I’m taking you away from being Cap.  From being who you are.”  
  
“I won’t,” Steve insisted.  After all, hadn’t he cared for Tony, so intensely he could hardly believe he hadn’t seen what it was until now, ever since he’d met him?  Even after everything they’d been through?  Why would that change now?  “I promise you that.”  
  
“Steve,” Tony said, with that same sad smile.  
  
“Why don’t we deal with this tomorrow?” Steve asked him.  He leaned forward, curved his hand against Tony’s cheek, his jaw, feeling the scruffy softness of his tangled beard under his fingers.  Tony’s smile softened, turned even sadder, and he turned his face in toward Steve’s palm, closed his eyes until his lips brushed against the heel of Steve’s palm.  “I’m here with you now.  I missed you, Tony.  I just want to hold you tonight.”  
  
“All right, champ,” Tony breathed.  “All right.”  He stood up, moved into Steve’s arms when he came around the table toward him, rested his head on his shoulder, until Steve tilted his head up with one hand on the side of his head, his face, kissed him softly.  He kept kissing him, soft and gentle over his lips, insistent but keeping his lips petal-soft and constant, until Tony was breathless—until they both were, really—and then, then led him back to bed.  
  
He lay awake for a long time, though, watching Tony sleep, curled against him.  He’d seemed so sad, so—exhausted.  It was why Steve had put a stop to their conversation.  He’d thought Tony was just spiraling down into hating himself, again.  He’d been wrestling with too much for too long, Steve thought.  He’d come here, and even though—even though everything between them had been wonderful, had been—been beautiful, Steve had put even more on already tired shoulders, demanded that Tony work through things he’d barely begun to process just by being there, and reminding him of the Avengers, of the whole rest of his life that he didn’t know how to deal with right now.  Tony seemed so tired, tired and sad, as if it was taking a physical toll on him, like it was draining the reserves of his body, the ones he’d barely built up again.  
  
Steve wanted to be good for him.  He wanted to help.  He just wasn’t sure if he knew how.  What if his being with him, his sleeping with Tony, was making things even harder for Tony?  Making it even harder for him to think about going back to the Avengers?  
  
Was he doing everything wrong?  
  
Steve sighed and slid down beside him, curling his arm more solidly over Tony’s side, and pulled him close across his chest.  At least he could do this.  He could hold him safe, hold him close.  He pressed a kiss against the top of Tony’s head.  _Sweetheart_ , he thought, and closed his eyes.


	9. Hold Me in Your Arms, Let's Let Our Love Blind Us

The next morning, Steve got up while Tony was still in bed, still fast asleep.  He found himself just thinking over breakfast, staring off into space as he ate his eggs and sipped his coffee.  He didn’t quite know what to expect from Morgan Stark, but he trusted Tony’s read on the situation, so he started mentally readying himself for a fight.  The rest of it, though—that was a little harder to know what to do with.  Steve didn’t want to think like—like Tony was a problem, not like that, but Tony clearly was feeling stressed by uncertainty about their relationship, and Steve just—just wanted to think of some way he could make that easier on him, something he could say, maybe, or agree to, that would make Tony feel better about things, make him feel like he could just relax into them being together.  
  
He hoped he hadn’t done the wrong thing by jumping into their relationship like this.  He hadn’t exactly looked before he leapt.  He hadn’t really thought about it at all.  He’d just thought that—that Tony was wonderful, and he cared for him, and he seemed so lost and alone, like he thought no one could ever love him, and all Steve had wanted to do had been to make him feel loved, make him feel—precious, and important to Steve, just as important as he was.  And Tony loved him—he had no doubt of that.  He believed it, wholeheartedly.  But—but maybe he’d done the wrong thing by starting this now.  Maybe he’d made it even harder for Tony to figure this out.  To figure out what he wanted—or to come back to the Avengers, at the end of the day, because Steve still felt like that would be the best thing for Tony, whether he did or not.  But he couldn’t force that on him.  All he could do was wait, and support Tony while he did, no matter what, and no matter what his decision was in the end.  
  
God, he hoped he hadn’t done the wrong thing for Tony.  Again.  He loved him so much.  It seemed so wrong that he’d make so many mistakes with him, hurt him so much and so badly and so many times.  Steve sighed, let his face fall forward into his hands, for a long moment.  
  
Had he just put more pressure on Tony?  He must feel like—like Steve just being with him was a form of pressure.  There was that—that unspoken expectation, because Steve was who he was, about Tony coming back to the Avengers, and—what if he felt like he was between a rock and a hard place, now?  The way he’d talked about it, no matter what Steve said, it seemed like he was afraid he would make Steve hate him for taking him away from the Avengers, if they were together.  Was he just putting more pressure on Tony when Tony was already vulnerable, already struggling?  God, had he taken advantage of Tony’s loneliness and vulnerability, his desperation to feel better, feel loved?  He didn’t want Tony to feel like he had to come back for Steve, not when he wasn’t ready, and he’d put him in such an unfair position, that way.  He was trying so hard not to pressure Tony, but it was like who he was, everything he was, was putting pressure on Tony now.  He felt his hands clench into fists, and for a moment, he hated it, hated who he was, hated being Cap, because it meant he couldn’t just be Steve, couldn’t just be Steve and be with Tony, let Tony be whatever he needed to be right now, when that was all he wanted.  Because Cap would always be there, and would always mean expectations.  He’d always be that to Tony.  
  
But at the same time, like Tony had said, it was who he was.  There was nothing he could do about it.  He just had to show Tony that—that Captain America, as a commander, as a soldier, as whatever Captain America was, didn’t expect anything more of Tony than he’d already given right now.  He expected Tony to—to get his own head on straight before he tried to do anything else.  That was what Captain America expected from him, wanted from him.  He cared about Tony as a person, first.  He hoped that—that maybe Tony was coming to see that.  Would come to see that.  Wouldn’t feel undue pressure because Steve was also Cap, would—would understand that he was all right with whatever Tony decided for himself.  However much it hurt.  
  
God, what if Tony decided they couldn’t be together?  That it wouldn’t work between them?  Steve felt the twist of agony in his chest, the nausea and vertigo the feeling brought on, God, but it would break his heart—  
  
But if that was what Tony wanted, that was what he’d give him.  Tony deserved that, that respect from him, that consideration.  Steve would just go on with a broken heart, and hope, eventually, it healed enough that they could be what they’d been before, or—or something different, because of course you couldn’t go back, but he was sure they could forge something different, couldn’t they?  But he would do it.  Steve would do that for him.  He’d do anything for him.  He’d never talk about his feelings for him again, if Tony wanted.  Because that, that was what that meant.  Doing anything for him meant doing anything Tony wanted from him, anything at all, whether it was what Steve himself wanted or not.  Steve looked down at his hands, curled against the table, and swallowed hard.  
  
He regretted putting that extra strain on Tony, when he was already struggling, this extra stress.  He didn’t want him to feel like he might lose Steve, too, if he didn’t make the right decision.  He was already struggling so much.  But at the same time, Steve was glad he’d been able to shower Tony in affection, offer him his support, his love, at a time he was most vulnerable, and he wasn’t sure which he should feel, which was more true—which Tony had needed more.  All he could do was offer Tony his love and support, as unconditionally as he could, and hope Tony could feel that, that there were no conditions on it, none whatsoever.  
  
Well, maybe it would have been better if they had waited until Tony was feeling more certain on his pins, more sure of himself and the direction he was heading, but they hadn’t, and Steve was in it now.  He couldn’t pull back from Tony, couldn’t walk away from him now—it was clear, even though Tony hadn’t said it, in so many words, that that would devastate him, would make him feel like all those awful things he thought about himself were true and real, like Steve thought them, too.  Which he didn’t, of course.  But he owed it to him, Steve thought, to stay by his side now.  
  
Besides, he didn’t want to leave.  He didn’t want to leave Tony behind.  He loved him so much.  God, he loved him so much.  How had he never realized it before now?  That tight, seizing feeling in his chest, around his heart, when he so much at looked at Tony, his desire to be with him—his desperation to see him safe and well—the way he always believed in him—that it meant he loved him?  Steve didn’t know what it meant for them in the future, but he still felt more than a little dizzy from the revelation.  
  
He loved Tony.  Of course he did.  It all made sense.  It felt like a shock, a dizzying shock that he was still in freefall from, and something he’d known all along.  
  
Tony was so—he was just so wonderful.  Even depressed as he was, barely holding on, he was so—so warm and generous and kind and good to Steve, and Steve didn’t even know how to put into words how—how good it was, how it made a sweet, desperate, lurching sense of love and wonder well up inside of him, every time, until he was dizzy with it.  He loved him so much.  They’d find their way through this.  They would.  They had to.  Didn’t they?  They’d been through so much.  Tony had been through so much.  
  
God, he’d been through so much.  He deserved something sweet, something good, now.  He deserved to believe Steve loved him.  
  
Steve twisted around to look at him again, still asleep in bed, sleeping with his cheek smushed in against the pillow, limp and sprawled out like he hadn’t slept in weeks.  Maybe he hadn’t been able to sleep well since Steve had left.  He had said he had felt needier than he wanted to, than he felt was fair to Steve, or to himself.  
  
Steve just wanted to help him.  Be there for him.  He didn’t mind, didn’t care, if Tony leaned on him right now.  That was why he’d come there in the first place.  To help.  
  
Steve let him sleep, started writing his report for the mission the Avengers had just completed, because he had to do it sometime.  It was the weekend, so why wake Tony early?  Tony slept late, until almost noon, and only then woke groggily, slowly—Steve could see how slow it was, and when he sat up and blinked at Steve, rubbing at his eyes, Steve could see how he stared at him, eyes wide, as if he almost couldn’t believe he was there, as if he maybe thought he was still dreaming.  
  
“Hey there,” Steve said softly.  “Good morning.  You still feeling all right?”  
  
“What?” Tony slurred out.  
  
“From last night,” Steve said, and knew he was blushing, but still smiled.  “You were awful tight.”  
  
He got to see Tony blush that time, a rare sight, especially to see him flush that dark, all the way down into his neck.  “Yeah, um,” he said, and bit his lip.  “I, um, I’m feeling fine.”  He flushed a little darker, and said, “Honestly, Steve, I—I haven’t done that in a while and—and you were so—so good, trust me.”  
  
“Okay,” Steve said, and smiled at him.  “Good.  I’ll let you wake up.”  
  
“Okay, thanks,” Tony said, sounding a little scattered, still.  “Hi, Steve.”  
  
“Hi,” Steve said, smiling at him.  Tony smiled back, then climbed slowly out of bed and headed for the bathroom.  
  
It was a slow morning.  Eventually, after breakfast and working on the armor for a while, Tony moved his chair over and let Steve put his arm around him, nuzzle into the soft skin of his neck before he kissed his jaw and just went back to what he’d been doing.  After a while, Tony rested his head on Steve’s shoulder and seemed to relax into it.  
  
“Thanks for coming back, sweetheart,” Tony said, mumbled it into his neck, really, after a long time of just sitting there, relaxed against him.  
  
“’Course,” Steve said, softly.  He stroked Tony’s shoulder, back and forth.  
  
“It’s just,” Tony said, slowly, raising his head and looking down at his hand clenched loosely against the table, spreading it out flat, “it makes it feel more real.  You know?”  
  
Steve thought about that for a moment, then nodded, turned his head again to press another kiss to Tony’s temple.  “Yeah,” he agreed.  “It does for me, too.”  He took a moment, then said, “You know why I came back out here?  Why I looked for you in the first place?”  
  
“No,” Tony said in a low voice.  “Why’s that?”  
  
“I missed you so much,” Steve said, his voice suddenly rasping in his throat, which felt thick.  “I just wanted to be with you.  That’s what it comes down to.”  
  
“I love you,” Tony said, his voice choked up.  He turned toward him, pressed his face in against Steve’s chest.  “That’s—that’s—you know how sweet that is?  I—Steve.”  
  
Tony had needed to hear that, Steve thought, wonderingly, stroking his hair gently.  He hadn’t quite known it would be that—that affecting for him, but—when he thought about everything Tony had told him about his romantic history, that first night, it made sense—and hey, he’d said the right thing.  He put his arms around him and held him close, just stroking his hair.  He liked that, too, Steve had noticed.  “I’ve gotcha,” he murmured, and kissed the top of Tony’s head.  “I’ve gotcha.”  
  
They stayed like that for a while, and finally Tony turned his head, rested it on Steve’s shoulder again, closed his eyes.  Steve kept stroking his hair, could feel the way Tony trembled under it and relaxed.  
  
“Tony?” he said after a moment.  
  
“Mmm?” Tony said.  
  
“I—maybe I’m out of line here,” Steve said.  “But—is it that you don’t _want_ to come back to the Avengers, or that you feel like you can’t?  What do you want?  At the end of the day, I think maybe that’s what matters most of all.”  
  
“But,” Tony said, and swallowed.  “Steve, I—I have so many responsibilities, I’ve—I’m responsible for so many things that have gone wrong.  I’ve—I’ve done so much.”  His hands were starting to shake again, and Steve took one of them in his, held it tight and squeezed.  “I’ve done so much wrong.  I—I can’t.  I can’t go back and do that again.  I can’t.”  
  
Steve squeezed Tony’s hand again.  “You care so much,” he said.  “Shh, Tony.  Let me say this.  You care so much, so of course it’s hard.  I know this is coming from—I mean, you just want to help people, and—and so of course it’s hitting you hard.  But, Tony, you can’t let Kang and people like—like Justin Hammer destroy all the good you could do, either.  Aren’t you all about going out there and fixing the things that have gone wrong—and yeah, that you’ve done wrong, if you want to look at it that way?  You’ve always been so good at owning up to your mistakes, and I’ve always admired you for that.  But—but it’s no good if the fear of making them just paralyzes you, makes you want to stop living your life at all.  And if it’s fear that—that someone will violate you like Kang did, well, I—I understand that, and you know I can’t promise that it won’t happen again, but I know you’re stronger than Kang, Tony.  I mean, you’re here right now, aren’t you?”  
  
“Not through any efforts I made,” Tony said, more than a little bitterly.  
  
“Pull the other one,” Steve said, and squeezed his hand again, firmly.  “As a teenager, you still helped us, you fought for what was right, and you helped preserve your own legacy, so that people like your cousin couldn’t get a hold of it.  And then, in the other world, you fought to help us all survive, get back to this world.  I remember that much.”  
  
“Yeah, but—but neither of those were versions of me who remembered what I’d done,” Tony said softly, barely audible, through lips that looked numb and stiff.  
  
Okay, so remembering what Tony had done was a big deal, Steve thought.  Tony was hung up on that.  On the things Kang had made him do.  On the things he felt like he’d done.  It was like Thor had said, and Steve—Steve could understand that.  
  
“You’re innocent of anything that Kang made you do,” Steve said, firmly.  “But if it would make you feel any better, we—the Avengers I mean—could formally clear you of any charges.  An Avengers tribunal.  We should probably do that anyway.  Would that make you feel better about it, if we reviewed all the evidence, everything that happened—and had a discussion?  I mean, I feel like you know my take on it already, but there are the others to consider, for sure.  I’m just one vote, but I think the others would agree with me.”  He knew Jan and Thor would, and even Clint had been excited by the idea that Tony might be still alive, of seeing him again.  He and Tony had been close when they were West Coast Avengers together, though, so of course he wanted to see him again.  “We could make sure it all gets hashed out, out in the open.”  He wanted to say, again, _but Tony, it’s not your fault, it was Kang, not you_ , but he’d already made his position clear.  
  
“I—” Tony said, then stopped.  He swallowed hard, his throat working.  “It might,” he said, then.  
  
“Well, we can do that,” Steve said.  “I mean, we could if you decided to come back.  Or even if you didn’t, I guess.  Way I see it, problem is that you’ve been all alone out here, and you never had the clearest read on the situation, so you’ve just been—marinating in it.  In the messed up memories in your own head.  And Tony, that doesn’t mean I think you’re crazy, so don’t start.  You said it yourself, that none of us quite remember clearly.  I sure don’t.  And Kang _did_ it to you.  It’s gonna hurt you, fester in you, more than it is for me or Wanda or Vision or even Clint.  It’s just how it is.”  
  
He expected Tony to bristle at that, to see a flash of that brittle, stinging shield Tony used to push him away when he was pushing too close, too much, but instead Tony just sighed and closed his eyes.  
  
“You might be right,” he said.  “I—I hate this.  I hate feeling—so messed up, and not knowing which way I should go, or who I even am anymore.  I feel like—like Kang tore out everything that made me—made me _me_ , and jammed it back in wrong, all . . . all backwards.”  
  
“You want to know what I think?” Steve said, and Tony shrugged, but also nodded.  Steve slid his fingers under his chin, tilted his head up, even though Tony only met his eyes for a second before they slid away again.  Steve didn’t let go, anyway.  “I think you’re still the Tony I’ve always known,” he said, and meant it.  “I recognize you.  I _know_ you.  You’re—you’re not having a great time of it, sure, but you’re still you.  Even the, uh, growing your beard out and coping with things by trying to build something away from the Avengers isn’t exactly new, is it, fella?”  
  
Tony gave a crooked, wry little smile at that.  “You might have a point,” he said, then sighed, took Steve’s hand in his and pressed it to his cheek, turning into it just for a moment, then curling his fingers in Steve’s and bringing them down to the table.  
  
“You never really answered my question,” Steve said after a moment.  “About what you actually want.”  
  
“I’m out here,” Tony said with a hoarse, rough little laugh, “because I don’t have the first clue what I want.”  And then he turned toward Steve, bit his bottom lip again.  “Except you,” he said.  “I know I want you.”  He leaned in, pressed a kiss to his lips, and Steve pressed into it.  It turned hot, intense, and Steve didn’t think about much else for a long time.  
  
When they finally pulled apart, Tony leaned his forehead against Steve’s, eyes closed, panting softly.  “I don’t want to go back to the Avengers just because you think it would be a good idea,” he said.  “Or because you think I should.  I think I have to—I’d have to know that it was a good idea.  That I could do more good than harm if I did.  And for that I—I have to be sure about myself.  And that’s not something you can fix for me, Steve.”  
  
“No,” Steve said.  “It isn’t.  I wish I could.  I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.  But that’s not how it works, is it?”  
  
“No,” Tony said, with a wry little smile, eyes still closed.  “It isn’t.”  He put his hands against Steve’s chest, pressed against him gently.  “Hold me again, Steve,” he said.  “Hold me, sunshine.  Make me feel like these hands aren’t—aren’t too bloody to be touched.  Make me feel like—like Captain America doesn’t think the worst of me, again.  Please.”  
  
Captain America, Steve thought.  Maybe Captain America could mean something to Tony other than just undue pressure.  Maybe being Cap could help Tony realize that he was worth something, too, because Steve so, so felt like he was worth something, with everything in him.  
  
And Tony had said please, and Steve was powerless to resist that.  Not when he asked like that.  Not about this.  He took Tony’s hands in his and pressed kisses to the fingertips, to the palms—to the knuckles.  And then he took Tony to bed.  
  
It was clear that there was something about the way Tony was feeling, the point he wanted Steve to make to him, wanted to feel, that made Tony want to give his body up to him, as clearly and fully and totally as he could.  It was equally clear that Tony associated that with anal penetration.  Steve was honestly worried that Tony was sore, and he did flinch and gasp as Steve slid a lube slick finger against him, harder and more when Steve actually slid it into him, but he also slid his legs over Steve’s and pulled his head down against his mouth and demanded more, not letting him slip away, begging for it with that horrible, soft, needy break in his voice that Steve couldn’t deny.   Steve just kissed him and kissed him, trying to make it feel good, trying to do what Tony had asked for, and show him how much he loved him, how much Captain America loved him, loved all of him, everything he was.  


* * *

  
  
Tony wasn’t sure why he’d always associated bottoming for anal sex with such an intense feeling of vulnerability, ever since the first time, when Ty had decided to take their relationship a step past him fucking Tony’s thighs to actually pushing into Tony’s body.  Well, it was physically a vulnerable act, receiving, being fucked instead of fucking, Tony could see that, but he never felt like he did about anal sex about oral, and he’d had his face, his mouth, his throat fucked hundreds of times.  It made him feel vulnerable, sure, but he still felt like he had some control, with that.  With anal he felt like he had no control at all.  
  
Ty had made it feel that way, anyway.  Tony had never really thought too much about the fact that Ty was bigger than him until then, when Ty felt like he was looming over him, two fingers deep inside Tony’s body as Tony squirmed and panted and tried to relax, to bear down so it wouldn’t hurt the way Ty said he should, and couldn’t seem to make it happen.  They’d been stupid kids, and he hadn’t wanted to seem pathetic, like a wuss or a coward, so he buried his head in his arms and pushed back against Ty’s thrusts inside him and tried to make it good for him, tried to make it seem like he was having a good time.  He hadn’t come, though—Tony was pretty sure the only reason he hadn’t gone soft was that he was a teenager and there was just enough sensation, pleasure, associated with it, through the pain, that it kept his over-eager dick in the game—but at least Ty had passed out after, as soon as he’d pulled out of Tony, so Tony could quickly jerk one out and pretend like he’d come while Ty was fucking him, because that would please Ty.  And it had, too, he’d smiled and patted Tony’s shoulder and stroked his back and said, “See, I knew you’d like it,” all satisfied with himself, and Tony had smiled and agreed and let Ty fuck him whenever he’d wanted it for—for years.  
  
Until Ty had disappeared from his life, and the next person Tony had had inside him had been Sunset with her strap-on.  Most of the people Tony had been with who liked pegging him didn’t really care if he got hard or came, during, which had honestly been a relief, because he almost never did.  But Tony figured that had been what had cemented that feeling of vulnerability from having something inside him.  Sunset had liked him to have a toy in his ass, spreading him wide, even while he was fucking her, and that had always been what felt like so much pressure, to get hard again after he’d gone soft from the discomfort of having her work the big plug or dildo into him.  
  
The best times had been with Rhodey, with Jim, but most of those had been while Tony was struggling with paralysis and nerve damage, and it had been—different.  It hadn’t felt the same.  Rhodey had been so patient with him, though, not minding that Tony couldn’t do much to make it good for him, or that he had no control over whether he got hard or not and usually didn’t.  Obviously Tony couldn’t fuck him, that had been the main thing, but Rhodey had always made the other way really good, fingering him and stroking his cock, hard or soft, before he’d pushed inside Tony and fucked him really, really well.  The pleasure had been softer, distant, almost referred, but Tony had still felt it.  It had been good.  
  
Being with Steve had been completely, entirely different, from anything he’d had before.  Nothing about Tony’s experiences in the past had ever, ever prepared him for it.  It had been the most like sex with Jim, but of course he hadn’t been half-paralyzed this time, had he?  And—and it was Steve.  God, it was Steve.  That was the thing, it was _Steve_ , and he still couldn’t entirely believe he was having sex with him at all, in the first place, let alone that—that Steve had been inside his body that way.  God, that he’d even fit.  At first Tony had thought he wouldn’t.  
  
He’d never, ever had such an intense experience with anal sex, never had it feel so—so _good_ , if he was honest.  And it had felt good.  It had barely hurt at all.  It had been a little strange.  Steve was so big, and Tony had been so sure it would hurt.  He was even bigger than Ty.  But instead he’d thought he’d explode with itching, needy, impossible pleasure, keeping him close and on the brink, not enough to tip him over, as Steve stretched him and stretched him and ran his fingers over that place inside that felt so good, as Steve stretched him wide open for his huge cock and it just wasn’t _quite_ enough to make Tony come.  
  
It was strange to feel so desperate to have it again—it had never been Tony’s favorite, but now he was trembling, his breath tight and thick in his throat, just because he wanted it so badly.  Wanted to feel how he had the night before, when Steve was inside him and there was nothing but Steve and his huge, demanding, overwhelming length and the pressure of it and the feeling that—that Steve honestly wanted him, that Tony had given up everything he could to him and Steve wanted it all, that he didn’t hate Tony for just lying there and being so vulnerable and open and wrecked and not doing anything for him, not even really squeezing down on him much at all, because he’d been stretched so damn wide around him that he couldn't seem to do much of anything else but gasp for breath and try not to fall apart.  
  
Steve was kissing him so soft and deep, so sweetly, and Tony could feel tears in his eyes against his closed eyelids, just at the sweet softness in it, the depth of the kisses, even as Steve’s big finger moved softly and slowly inside of him, slicking him with lube with every slide of his finger back and forth until Tony felt hot inside and sloppy with it, dripping, as Steve circled his finger against Tony’s sweet spot until he moaned.  He’d never cared much about attention there, but Steve made it feel so, so good, so good and—and just, perfect, made him feel vulnerable but sweet and soft and open.  His ass was a little sore, like muscles after a good workout, more than anything, and it was strange to feel that same pressure again, against the sore, trembling tissues, but it was also strangely good, Steve’s fingers pressing against the soreness, knuckling into it, making him throb but in the best ways.  
  
Steve curled his fingers between Tony’s and squeezed as he circled his finger around and around inside him, grazing his bottom lip with his teeth, sucking on it and biting lightly until Tony was gasping and rocking in his hips, back down on Steve’s finger, deep inside him, overwhelmed with how good it felt.  He knew Steve liked anal sex, that had been so obvious and so so beautiful to watch, wonderful, a privilege to witness, but he never felt he’d feel the same way himself.  Was that one of Steve’s superpowers, too—to make anal sex feel almost as good for Tony as it did for Steve?  And Steve was holding his hand—he was holding his _hand_.  Tony felt embarrassingly tearful, could feel his breath hitching wetly in his throat, on tears, and hoped the kisses, Steve’s tongue in his mouth, was helping obscure how overcome he was, how on the edge.  
  
Steve’s cock was hot and hard and rubbing against Tony’s hip, but it didn’t seem to be in Steve’s mind at all.  He seemed perfectly happy taking his time with Tony, stroking him inside slow and gentle, until Tony felt like nothing so much as a quivering mess, and knew he was actually tearing up now, could feel the tears slipping out of his eyes and down the sides of his temples into his hair as he gasped and teared up and rocked back against Steve’s finger.  Normally that would have been humiliating, but he was so lost in it, in the sensations, that he couldn’t even feel humiliated.  All he could feel was Steve over him, around him, between his splayed open legs, finger deep inside his body, his lips and tongue against Tony’s mouth, his breath catching Tony’s breath and returning it to him, his own cock throbbing against Steve’s pelvis and chest that felt so smooth against Tony’s embarrassing hairiness.  But that was just extra pleasure, now, the contrast in how it felt as Steve’s smoothness rubbed against him, against the sticky, hot, needy-sweet throb of his cockhead.  Eventually Steve dragged his hand up, squeezed his fingers one last time, then brought his hand over to start stroking Tony’s hair, and Tony almost sobbed aloud, because he loved it, he loved having someone to touch and stroke his hair so much, and Steve had obviously figured that out and instead of even teasing him gently about it, he just—he just—he stroked Tony’s hair so sweetly, so nicely, fingers tugging gentle and soft through the tousled strands, and it fit how gently Steve was stroking him inside, too, and Tony knew he was fuzzing out, going loose and soft and slack under Steve, moaning under his tongue, against his lips, his brain nothing more than a loose soft haze buzzing with easy but intense pleasure.  Steve slid another slick finger into Tony and he moaned at the stretch, spreading his thighs instinctively, bringing his knees up to give Steve a better angle.  He clutched at Steve’s hair, his shoulders, wanted to do more for him, but Steve’s fingers were inside him and his cock was aching and Steve was rutting gently against his hip and that was all Tony could think about in those moments.  
  
“So good, Tony,” Steve murmured against his cheek, his voice so deep and husky, rumbling in his chest, that Tony moaned again, just at the sound of it, his cock jerking just at that.  “So good.  You feel so good inside for me, like silk and velvet on my fingers now you’re loosening up a little.”  Tony wondered if he’d just flushed, moaned at the thought, tossing his head against Steve’s hand just to feel it as his fingers tightened, as Steve tugged him closer, then slid his hand gently over the back of Tony’s head to cup it close.  “So, so good,” Steve said, fingers sliding in gently circles over that spot inside that made Tony see stars, even as he husked out the words.  “I love you.”  
  
Tony’s breath broke on a sob, and he knew he squeezed down tight around Steve’s fingers, couldn’t help it, his body instinctively wanting to pull Steve in further at those words.  
  
“Sweetheart,” Steve murmured, thumb rubbing at Tony’s perineum, around the edge of his hole, until it was so overwhelming that Tony bucked up against him, trembling, not even sure what he wanted, more or less.  “You all right?” he mumbled against Tony’s lips, and Tony wasn’t even sure what he could say.  His breaths were broken and helpless in his throat, and he felt so overwhelmed, and there were tears all over his face; he knew there were.  
  
“O-okay,” he finally managed to husk out.  “’m okay.  G-good.  Good, oh, Steve—St-Steve, sweetheart, please.”  
  
“Good,” Steve breathed, and it was so understanding, so gentle, that Tony teared up again practically just at that.  
  
It felt like Steve must have kept him there for hours, stroking him gently inside and petting his hair at the same time, until Tony was nothing but a tearful, hazy, floating mess of pleasure, boneless and helpless, mouth hanging open and wet when Steve wasn’t kissing him, as Steve caressed his hair, his face, his cheek and the side of his face.  Steve got three fingers in him at some point, and made love to him for the longest time just with those three fingers, until Tony could feel himself leaking against Steve’s belly, almost humiliating with how much and how copiously he was leaking precome, and moaning, hips rolling with the movements of Steve’s fingers inside.  He’d never felt so thoroughly taken apart before in his life, and all Steve was doing was kissing up and down his neck, his shoulder, his jaw, stroking his hair and his face on the other side, and moving three fingers inside him.  It felt like Steve was teaching Tony how good it could feel, all about his body inside, how it felt to have his fingers knuckling him open, pressing into him beside his prostate, how he liked to be stroked and touched there.  Tony felt like he’d never known.  Tony could have been there forever.  It felt like he could have been there years, an eternity, never once tipping over the edge into orgasm, right there on the brink, but he felt like he’d forgotten what orgasm was, let alone how to ask for it.  His cock throbbing and needy and desperate to come felt like a natural response to feeling so much pleasure from inside him, blooming out in a slow wave until every millimeter of Tony’s body was feeling it.  
  
Steve didn’t press into him until Tony was open and loose even around Steve’s three fingers, so slick and dripping; he’d never been so slick and dripping, ever.  Steve pressed a soft, deep kiss to his lips, long and slow, and pushed one of Tony’s legs up, palm under his thigh, until it was practically at Tony’s shoulder, and then his—his _huge_ , huge length of a cock was pressing against Tony’s hole.  He’d felt so open, so loose, just a moment before, but as Steve’s hot, searing hot, blunt cockhead slid over that open space, the trembling, clenching muscles, he felt like it was too big, like he wouldn’t fit, not in a million years.  He moaned, clutched at Steve tighter, kissing him back desperately and choking on—on his own spit, feeling it gurgle in his throat as he sucked on Steve’s tongue, and then Steve’s hand was moving down, curling around Tony’s cock and squeezing, dragging up slowly, squeezing at the top of the head, and Tony gasped out a breath, a moan that was almost a sob, lost himself in the sudden heat of that spike of pleasure like a lance through his body—and when he came back to himself, it was to the stretch and pressure of Steve slipping into him, easy as anything.  
  
Tony gasped, arched up against him, shocked and overwhelmed by the feeling, felt himself clench down helplessly, his inner muscles squeezing down around Steve hard and greedy and painful until he was almost sobbing just at that, the feeling of Steve’s cockhead inside him and the tight clench of his muscles around it.  Steve made a soft, shushing noise, groaning himself, blinked a few times that Tony could see through his blurry, half-open eyes, and leaned in to kiss him again, still stroking his cock.  
  
Tony almost always went soft as he was penetrated, or at least, always had before, but he couldn’t have said if he did that time or not.  Steve’s hand kept moving on his cock, tugging gently, whether he was hard or soft, and Tony kept feeling himself blurt out precome, the whole time Steve was pressing into him, slow, ever so slow, waiting until Tony’s body bloomed open for him before he pushed ahead, further into him.  Tony had no idea when Steve was sheathed in him entirely, just a vague sense of shock when he felt the brush of Steve’s balls against his own damp skin there at his buttocks and knew Steve’s whole huge length was inside him, but it barely lasted because Steve was rocking inside him and his whole body was sensitive and hot and his toes were curling and Steve’s hand was moving on his cock and Steve was kissing him again.  He felt so penetrated, so completely owned and taken, so open and so vulnerable, and it was everything he’d wanted.  He clutched at Steve, crying out brokenly against his lips just at that.  
  
“Good boy,” Steve murmured against his lips.  His voice was a hoarse, broken wreck.  “You feel that, Tony?”  A gentle squeeze to his cock, a swirl of his thumb over Tony’s cockhead, a gentle little nip at his bottom lip.  “You took all of me.  Just like that.  Opening up so good.  So, so good, Tony.  You’ve got the tightest little passage, God, sweetheart.  Never felt anything like you.”  
  
Tony half wanted to say that that was because he almost never did this, half hysterical, but he didn’t, because all he could do was gasp for air and pant and shiver under Steve.  There were still tears trickling out of his eyes.  
  
“I love you so much,” Steve said, brokenly, almost sounding tearful again, and kissed him one more time, and then he slid so slowly out of Tony’s body that it was just as overwhelming as him pressing in, and Tony felt so overwhelmed and overstretched and helpless that he was quivering, tears in his eyes all over again.  
  
“Shh,” Steve said, and pressed a kiss against the wet edge of Tony’s eye, against the tears there, and then he was moving, swinging Tony’s leg down, somehow pushing him onto his side without ever pulling out of him, until Tony was lying there, curled on his side, mouth open on a silent moan at the intensity of moving with Steve’s cock there deep inside him, and then Steve was at his back, both wet hands curled into Tony’s, kissing his hair, the back of his neck, as he thrust into him once, twice, and Tony gasped, moaned, cried out as Steve thrust into him.  Steve was curled around him, all around him, curved over him and holding him close, and oh, God, it was perfect, everything he’d wanted, barely thrusting, just grinding his cock in and out of him, and oh, God, he was so big inside and went so deep inside of Tony, and it was perfect, and Tony was sobbing, couldn’t help it, knew Steve would feel the hitching heaves of his chest but couldn’t seem to stop.  Steve was so deep inside of Tony and every thrust pressed on that sensitive, needy, hot, tender place inside him.  
  
Eventually Steve pressed a kiss to his shoulder, the side of his neck, his ear, and disentangled one hand from Tony’s to slide it down, under his thigh, tug it up and back, moving Tony’s leg however he wanted him, really, opening him up for Steve’s cock.  He sobbed and shoved his free hand in his mouth to muffle it.  
  
Steve fucked him good and hard, long and deep, rolling him over on his front so that Tony’s cock was rubbing against the covers and Tony was a needy mess the whole time, shivering and gasping and arching under him, sobbing against his own hand.  No, Steve didn’t fuck him—he _made love_ to him good and hard, pressing kisses over his back and his shoulders, his neck, his spine, little feather-light brushes of his mouth up under his ears and against his hairline, holding his other hand tight the whole time, like every stroke of his cock was meant to show Tony how much he wanted to be inside of him, how much he enjoyed him, how much he—he _wanted_ him.  
  
After a long, long time, Tony quivering around the length deep inside him, Steve tugged his body back against his, making Tony moan at the loss of the friction of the bed against his raw, needy cock, prickling and hot as it was, and then Steve let go of his thigh and reached around, and his hand was around Tony again, his palm so callused and big and strong and hot against his cock, stroking and squeezing so gently but firmly, twisting around the head just how Tony liked to do it to himself, and Tony gasped and choked on his own wet saliva, so thick in his throat, and then he was coming—and coming and coming, and he wasn’t sure how long that went on, until he was feeling his tear-wet eyes against the pillows, and Steve was throbbing and pulsing hot and huge inside of him, and he thought Steve might have come, too.  The pleasure was so good, so overwhelming, so much, so beautiful and so much, that that was all he could think, and that was all he was aware of for a long time.  
  
He hadn’t realized he’d passed out until his eyes were opening in a way that felt slow, slow and soft, as they fluttered against the pillow.  His mouth was open and wet, and he was tucked in under the blankets like someone had taken care with it.  He raised his head, slowly, and surprised himself as the movement brought another wet little sob out of him, like he’d been crying before he woke and was just now coming down off it.  He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.  
  
Wow, he felt so—so weird, his mind all floaty and soft and strange, and he felt open and wet and aching inside, more than a little sore, but in a pleasant, intense sort of way, throbbing gently inside in a way he oddly liked.  It had never felt like that with Ty or with any of his girlfriends.  It felt so good, like he’d be able to remember the thickness and girth and heat of Steve’s cock inside him for a long time.  His own cock felt clean and soft against his legs, and he wasn’t sticky or wet between them or around his hole anymore, so Steve must have cleaned him up.  
  
He could hear the shower running.  That must be where Steve was now.  He—wow—he—all he could remember was the pleasure of it all.  He couldn’t seem to think about much else, like the white hot searing pleasure had wiped everything else, except Steve, how safe, held safe and whole, he’d felt in Steve’s arms, right out of his head.  He curled his hands over, fingers against the palms, then patted his fingers down his arms, over his belly, his sides, his hips, in a strange urge to make sure he was still—solid, still present and real, because he felt sort of—of incorporeal, like a tingling being made out of only light and energy and residual pleasure.  Like Steve had changed him somehow.  But no, his body felt real enough, just as hairy and ungroomed as he had that morning when he’d woken up.  Or—whenever it had been.  The last day or so, since—since Steve had come back—felt like both an hour and a week, like Tony had lost track of time entirely, or it had ceased to mean anything.  
  
Steve was there, with him.  That was all he could think about.  
  
He’d made love to him so—so perfectly, so completely, he—it was so overwhelming.  Tony wiped his eyes on the pillow, gasping for breath, still trying to—to come down from it, to find some kind of equilibrium or control.  He felt like a shivering, shuddery mess.  His whole body felt—felt loose and soft and strange, like it wasn’t quite under his control, like he’d been left melted and soft and couldn’t quite move right.  
  
When Steve came out of the shower, a towel tied loosely around his waist, rubbing another one through his hair, he was so beautiful—glowing and dewy with warmth and wet, little drops of water clinging to his skin all over, that Tony felt himself tear up stupidly again.  He was just so beautiful, and he was there, and he was Tony’s, he had just made love to Tony so beautifully, and Tony was allowed to—to have that, to want that, and he—he just didn’t know what he was feeling, he didn’t know.  It was too much, too overwhelming, and his chest was tight, tight and painful and—and needy, like his emotions alone were leaving him bruised and tender.  He was so damn _lucky_.  How could he ever deserve that, something so good, something so wonderful, as having Steve with him, loving him, after everything he’d done, the things he had built, but Steve had loved him anyway, had made love to him, and he—he—Steve was so beautiful, so wonderful, he was so perfect—Tony loved him so much, and Steve had—Steve had been so kind to him, Steve was so—so wonderful, Tony loved him so much—  
  
“Hey, there, fella,” Steve said, and his eyes were very soft, soft and grave, almost, but warm with love, too, his face soft with it.  “Hey, no, don’t get up,” he said, as Tony started to try to struggle upward.  “Shh.”  He was there a moment later, pressing Tony back down into the bed with one hand on his shoulder, then he caressed his face with his palm and Tony just—shivered all over, down to his toes.  Steve leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Tony’s head, then stroked his hair, and Tony squeezed his eyes shut against more stinging tears.  He felt like a mess, but so, so soft and perfectly—perfectly overwhelmed, almost in pain, the inside of his chest throbbing and tender, with the affection in the gesture, soft and floaty and all over the place.  He wondered if Steve would ever get tired of holding him.  He hoped not.  He—he wanted Steve to hold him, he hoped—he hoped Steve would want to.  
  
Steve kissed him again, stroked his hair until the tears stinging Tony’s eyes were just from the pure pleasure in it, down over his shoulders, then kissed him lightly on the lips, on the jaw.  Steve was sitting on the bed now, Tony thought.  “Sweetheart,” he said, voice so scratchy and soft, low.  “Oh, sweetheart.  Tony.  You were so good for me.  So beautiful.”  
  
Tony swallowed another sob, bit his lip against the tight throb of emotion that brought in his chest.  He hoped he’d been—been pleasing, that was all.  He trembled.  
  
Steve kissed him again.  “So good,” he said again.  He stroked his hand through Tony’s hair, and Tony managed to roll over, bury his face against Steve’s side, panting for breath just at that.  Steve was so perfect, because he slid down beside him, pulled Tony into his arms, holding him just like that, and stroked his hair for—for what must have been a long time, until finally the tears weren’t stinging Tony’s eyes anymore, and he could breathe evenly again, and he felt a little more—together, a little bit more like himself, his breath heaving in his throat even so.  
  
“How was that?” Steve asked after a long moment.  His voice sounded hoarse, hoarse and low.  His fingers stroked gently through Tony’s hair, behind his ears.  “Feel okay?”  
  
Tony nodded, then nodded again, feeling his breath catch in his throat as he looked up at Steve, because how could he even doubt it.  “So good, honey,” he said, and it came out kind of like a little moan, catching in the back of his throat.  He felt himself go hot with embarrassment and swallowed hard.  “It was, it was fantastic,” he managed.  “So good.  So—so good, peaches.”  He blinked, swallowed hard again, tried to think, tried to give Steve a little smile, managed to tease him weakly, “A-are you worried about your technique or something?  Because you—you don’t need to be.”  He focused enough to pat him softly, clumsily, on the chest.  “Tony Stark seal of approval right here.”  
  
Steve’s face softened as he looked down at him, and he went a little pink, like he was going hot in the cheeks.  He ran the backs of his fingers along Tony’s cheek, then looked down, smiling a little sheepishly.  “Not about my technique,” he said quietly.  “I just want to be good for you, that’s all.”  His voice got even quieter, even as he met Tony’s eyes.  Tony felt himself swallowing hard.  “Don’t want to hurt you,” Steve murmured.  
  
“You’re not hurting me,” Tony mumbled, and it was true.  Pretty much the exact opposite.  When he was with Steve, like this, it was like he forgot to feel broken and pathetic.  Even as overwhelmed and vulnerable and—and open as he felt right now, he didn’t feel pathetic, somehow.  Maybe because Steve was cupping his jaw, stroking his hair, looking at him like he was something precious, not something pathetic at all.  
  
“Well, good,” Steve murmured.  He was stroking the spot just behind Tony’s ear, where it met the sensitive skin behind his jaw, and it left Tony shivering all over.  “I know I’m big.  I just want to be good for you.”  
  
Tony’s throat felt tight, his chest tender and aching, and he knew his face had to have softened even more.  He was so lucky—so damn lucky, to have Steve think that was so important—to have him mention it twice in a row like that—that Steve wanted to please _him_ , of all people, that Steve really _cared_ —of course, Steve was good, good and sweet and generous, he knew that, but he still almost couldn’t believe it.  “Well, you are,” he said softly, almost whispered.  “Don’t worry about that.”  
  
“Okay,” Steve said, and he was blushing bright red, his eyes shining and wet, and the emotions writ large against his face had feeling twisting tight and almost painful in Tony’s chest, in his belly, because—because Steve was looking at him like that, like he really, really gave a shit—like Tony wasn’t the only one who felt vulnerable here.  Steve rubbed a hand across his face, blew his breath out.  “That’s good.”  
  
Tony found himself reaching out, curling his hands around Steve’s face.  “Honey?” he whispered, shivering and feeling suddenly worried.  “Are you okay?”  
  
“’m fine,” Steve said, but his throat sounded thick.  “I just . . . I love you.”  
  
Tony knew he smiled like an idiot, but he didn’t pull his hands away.  “I mean,” he said, and it felt like he was groping through the fog in his head to find the words, but it was important to ask, he knew it was.  “I, are you okay with topping?  You—you just seem—seem kind of upset?”  
  
Steve flushed even deeper red, bit his bottom lip.  “It’s not that,” he said, hoarsely, his voice rough.  “I love it.  I love topping for you.  It’s so good—you’re so good, Tony.  It’s—it’s not that.  It’s just that it’s—it’s a little overwhelming, I guess.  It feels so good—and it’s you, and—and I just want to do a good job.”  
  
Oh.  Yeah, that made sense to Tony.  He’d felt the same way when he had been the one inside Steve, half-twisted up with the desire to make it good for him, to make it perfect.  It made him feel warm and wonderful to think that Steve had felt the same way about him, actually.  “Well,” he said, and smiled at him.  “You did great.  You were wonderful.  I can’t imagine anything better.  Seriously.”  He leaned in, pressed his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, let his head rest there, and Steve was so perfect, because he wrapped his arms around Tony and hugged him tight, with a squeeze of his big, strong biceps.  Tony felt so warm.  “You don’t mind, though?” Tony mumbled.  
  
“Oh, God, not at all,” Steve said, with a self-conscious little laugh.  He buried his face in Tony’s hair.  “Mind?  I—no, I don’t mind.  Pretty far from it.  I like it like that.”  He flushed under Tony; Tony could feel him going hot down his chest, under his cheek, and smiled, because it was kind of adorable.  “Just like I liked it the other way,” Steve said.  “I liked it every way we’ve done it.”  
  
“Oh,” Tony said, and smiled, gave a little laugh.  “Well, good.  I try.”  He’d tried so hard.  He’d done everything he could goddamn think of to make it good for Steve.  It was good to think that Steve had enjoyed it.  
  
Steve was stroking Tony’s back, his shoulders now.  “You do great,” Steve said, a little awkwardly, but all Tony did was beam into his skin.  His Steve was sweet and a little awkward, after all, but he could hear the sincerity in that, and even his mind wasn’t twisting it into anything awful, not right then, anyway.  Steve sounded too sincere for that.  “Seriously, Tony,” Steve said, after a moment, sliding a hand up and curling it through Tony’s tousled hair, at the base of his skull, again.  Tony sighed in pleasure, feeling a shiver of it go all the way down to his toes.  “You’re so good.”  He pressed a kiss to Tony’s forehead, just above his eyebrow.  “You’ve been so wonderful, so good to me.”  
  
Tony smiled and pressed closer.  “Just wanna be good for you,” he slurred out.  “Yeah.  S’all I want.”  
  
“All?” Steve asked, and kissed Tony’s hair again.  “Really?”  
  
Tony flushed, felt it in his ears and his neck and shoulders as he hunched them up, pressed his face closer into Steve’s neck.  “Dunno,” he said.  Wanting to be good for Steve felt so much less complicated than anything else.  “Being with you is the first thing that’s—that’s been clear in a long time.”  
  
“Yeah?” Steve asked.  His other hand came up, stroked gently up and down Tony’s back.  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”  
  
“You too?” Tony mumbled.  Suddenly his throat felt thick.  “God, Steve, honey, I’ve always wanted this, wanted you, I—always, Steve.”  He buried his suddenly teary eyes against Steve’s shoulder, and, very distantly, thought that he was very, very out of it.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this out of it after sex.  Probably it had been with Indries.  
  
But it was true.  He’d always wanted to be with Steve, on some level, ever since he’d known what sexuality was.  Sure, at first it had just been an adolescent crush on Captain America, but even then there had been that feeling of admiration of Steve’s courage and integrity and—and everything he stood for, the stupid little hope that Cap would be kind to him, would have—would have protected Tony in a way he had barely been able to imagine, taken care of Tony when he was vulnerable.  And then he’d _met_ Steve, and oh, boy, Steve was so much better than anything Tony could have imagined about Cap as a kid.  Steve was sweet and awkward and dorky and vulnerable and artistic and had that wide-eyed sincerity that no matter how much the world sucked or the war had battered him, hadn’t been knocked out of him.  And God, here he was, and Tony was so goddamn vulnerable right now, and here Steve was, arms around him, holding him close, like it meant everything to Steve, too, just to do it.  How could Tony possibly deserve this?  After everything he’d done?  But Steve was right there, not even hesitating.  
  
“You’ve got me,” Steve murmured, warm and husky against Tony’s ear.  Both his hands smoothed down over Tony’s back, warm and perfect, and it felt so good.  
  
“Do I?” Tony managed to choke out.  His head was spinning.  
  
“Yep,” Steve said.  He pushed Tony over a little, onto his back, and raised a hand, cupped it against his jaw, smiling down at him, his eyes so full, spilling over with feeling, that Tony’s breath got stopped up in his throat.  Steve’s face was so—so soft, so open.  “Got me for good, fella.”  He kissed Tony’s neck, over his pulse, his Adam’s apple, then captured one of Tony’s hands in his, kissed at the knuckles, again and again, like Tony was his lady fair and Steve was his gallant knight, turned it over and pressed a kiss against the heel of his palm, then the center of it, rubbing his thumb over the rest of his palm, up over his fingers.  “I’ll touch you whenever you want,” he said, and Tony remembered begging Steve _make me feel like these hands aren’t too bloody to be touched_.  They didn’t feel bloody at all, now.  They felt—almost fragile, trembling in Steve’s hands.  Steve squeezed his hand gently, cupping it as he kissed the tips of the fingers again, picked it up and held it against his cheek.  “There’s nothing bad about you, Tony,” he murmured, and looked up, held his eyes.  “I mean that,” he said.  
  
“Steve,” Tony said thickly, his breath sobbing in his throat.  “I—how—you—you, I mean, everyone has flaws?”  And he had more than most.  
  
Steve smiled at that.  “Guess I love you too much to think of any right now,” he said.  He curled his fingers through Tony’s and squeezed, brought his hand down to rest it on Steve’s side, then reached up and stroked his fingers through Tony’s hair again, along the side of his head, above his ear.  “I’m so in love with you.”  
  
“But,” Tony said, and swallowed.  He couldn’t meet his eyes.  “Steve, I—what if.  What if I give everything to you, and you—you don’t, um, I mean, you don’t want me anymore?”  He was barely holding it together as it was.  There was barely anything Kang had left of him.  He wasn’t sure he could take another—another shattering blow, like metal under too much stress, and sure, maybe that made him weak, but—but he knew himself, too.  He knew what he could take.  Or couldn't take.  
  
“I’m never gonna just drop you like you don’t mean anything, Tony,” Steve said, and his own voice was thick, but he didn’t look away, didn’t let his head or his eyes drop, caught and held Tony’s eyes.  “Sure, maybe it doesn’t work out.  Maybe it’s not forever.  You know as well as I do that we don’t know what will happen in the future.  We can only do our damn best to be good to each other now.  But I do know one thing, Tony—you mean too much to me for me to ever just walk away from you.  If we do—if we do end up splitting up, it’s not gonna be like it was when those other people just dropped you, Tony, made you feel—feel like you did.  You mean too much to me for that, and Tony, I—I can’t just walk away from you.  I can’t.  Maybe that’s not healthy.  Maybe it means I need you too much.”  He swallowed, like it was difficult.  “Probably it does, even,” he said, huskily.  “But if you need to know—need to know I’ll be here, well.  I will.”  
  
Tony swallowed hard, his throat aching, and felt it thick in his throat.  He let his head tip forward, hid it against Steve’s shoulder.  
  
How had Steve known?  How had he known exactly what Tony had—had needed to hear?  No platitudes about Steve always loving him—he’d heard that before, and that eternal love had lasted a few months or never existed at all.  But that—that he could believe in.  That had been _honest_.  That had been sincere.  And he—he believed it.  He believed it completely.  
  
“Even if I don’t go back to the Avengers?” he mumbled, because he really was pathetic, had to push, had to—to shove the worst, weakest parts of himself in Steve’s face again.  
  
“I’ll tell you as many times as I have to tell you,” Steve said.  “I mean it, fella.  I want to be with you.  Whatever you get up to.  You hear me?”  
  
“Yeah, I hear you,” Tony said, and lay back, stared at the ceiling over Steve’s head, because his eyes were wet, blurry with tears, and he didn’t quite dare to meet Steve’s eyes right then.  He was trying to process that.  
  
He’d always felt—felt like being Iron Man, being an Avenger, was what made him—acceptable to Steve.  Palatable.  Worthwhile.  Worth spending time with.  After all, who was Tony Stark?  A war profiteer?  His father’s son?  The man so many people had found too pathetic to want to stay with?  It was—it was overwhelming to think that Steve would—would prefer Tony, maybe, to Iron Man.  He couldn’t see why it would be.  He’d always been so afraid of Steve seeing too much of who he really was.  Seeing too much Tony, rather than Iron Man.  Afraid it would ruin who he thought he was.  
  
But God, he couldn’t have been any more pathetic since Steve had gotten here—he’d almost taken a drink, he’d cried, he’d vomited his guts up in front of him, he’d broken down, and he’d just sobbed through sex, pretty much the whole time, and Steve was still here, gently stroking his neck and the side of his face, kissing his jaw, now, and his collarbone, fingers tangling gently through his hair, like he couldn’t imagine anything better.  
  
Could it be true?  Could Steve really like—him, Tony?  Like that?  Weak, pathetic, and whatever else he was?  The man Kang had used to murder his friends and left like he was less than nothing?  He remembered Steve laughing at his stupid jokes as he walked him back from the Restoration Project, Steve rehanging his damn door, Steve frowning as he struggled with the themes of Philip Dick’s book, Steve going red as they played cards, Steve taking a bite of chow mein from Tony’s chopsticks and not even worrying about it getting his face messy, Steve smiling as he sat back and sketched Tony—just the way Tony was now, scruffy beard and stained clothes and all of it.  Steve buying him cheap chocolate and grinning at Tony’s pleasure at the thought of eating it, his simple pleasure in treating Tony to lunch.  
  
They’d had a lot of fun together.  They really had.  Tony didn’t think he’d ever been so open with someone in his life, except for Jim.  And between him and Rhodey—it had never quite worked out, had it?  He adored Rhodey, always would, but he’d messed stuff up between them, every time they’d tried to take it to another level.  And maybe he’d mess it up with Steve, too—but.  But there’d always been the barrier of being Tony Stark before.  He couldn’t be vulnerable, couldn’t be real.  Because—because the real him was weak, wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t _good_ enough.  He had to be the Tony Stark he’d created, to wear on the outside.  To be strong.  _Stark men are made of iron._   But—but here he was, messy and vulnerable and barely holding it together, and here Steve was like it didn’t even matter.  
  
He curled both hands around Steve’s neck and brought him close, buried his face in his hair.  “I believe you, sweetheart,” he mumbled, and almost sobbed again as he said it, had to swallow hard, push it back down, because he _wasn’t_ going to cry again.  “I believe you, Steve.”  
  
Steve gave a choking, breathless little noise, wrapped his arms around Tony and squeezed, held him close.  
  
“Stay with me,” Tony murmured.  
  
“Always,” Steve said, and his voice sounded choked.  “Always.”  His hand came up and stroked Tony’s hair, and Tony felt like the luckiest man in the world.  
  
They couldn’t stay in bed the rest of the day, of course, but they did stay in bed for a long, long time, and most of it was Steve just holding him, petting Tony’s hair, and Tony felt so drowsy and soft and good, in a way he hadn’t felt after sex in—in a long, long time.  After a while, Steve got Tony to sit up a little, one arm around his bare back, against his shoulder, and got him to eat a granola bar, sip a little water, then just held him against his chest again, stroking his back and shoulder, rubbing gently just under his ear and along the nape of his neck.  Tony squeezed his eyes shut and let his face rest against Steve’s shoulder and thought about how, well, how lucky he was, and how he couldn’t ever let anything happen to Steve.  
  
Steve had said a few things, about Tony building his way out of this—about how Tony could make safeguards for mind control, for the whole team, for anything like what Kang had done to him.  Tony didn’t want to be a liability, again.  He didn’t want to hurt Steve, more than anything he didn’t want to do that.  He didn’t want to hurt Steve like how Kang had made him hurt Jan.  The thought made him feel sick to his damn stomach, like he’d vomit again right there.  
  
Steve said Jan had—had asked after him.  Had been hoping he was all right.  God, Jan.  He missed her.  He wanted to see her so badly.  He wanted to see Jarvis—Thor—even Clint.  God, he missed them.  He missed Rhodey and Pepper and Happy, too.  Rhodey was right about the phone not being enough.  
  
If he went back to the team, he’d have to build in safeguards.  He’d have to work on it.  He’d have to test them against—his stomach roiled uncomfortably—well, against mind control, against mental invasion, to be sure they worked, but—maybe Emma Frost would help him with it.  They’d had a few good times, hadn’t they, him and Emma, at the Hellfire Club?  
  
He wondered if she’d agree with Marianne about his . . . his darkness.  Or whatever.  It wasn’t the sort of thing you really asked Emma Frost.  Besides, her idea of darkness was . . . well, probably pretty different from Marianne’s.  Ha.  Yeah, she’d probably say Tony could use a little more darkness, a little less fretting over the morality of every decision.  
  
He actually had a few ideas about how something like that might work.  They’d always had a problem with mind control.  He thought about Thor, and the Enchantress, and—well, if it was bad if Tony got suborned by an enemy, it was even worse if it was Thor, wasn’t it?  Of all the regular Avengers, Tony was one of the only ones who could really stand up against Thor, in the armor—a _good_ armor—and only if he didn’t mind burning power like there was literally no tomorrow.  Him and Carol, and—was Carol still in space?  He had no idea.  Damn.  He wanted to talk to her, too.  He felt a sudden pang of missing her.  She would probably slap him upside the head for this.  He suddenly wanted that, to hear her chewing him out.  
  
If Tony got taken over again, Thor or Carol could take him out, easy, couldn’t they?  So could Rhodey, come to think of it.  Of course, Clint, Steve, and Jan probably all a shot at taking him down, too, though he was pretty sure he’d protected against every EMP arrow Clint had ever used so far.  Mostly in case of friendly fire—better safe than sorry, after all.  Of course, Steve could probably incapacitate him easy as anything if he wasn’t in the armor, and, well, Steve was pretty damn good; Tony wouldn’t have bet against him even with Tony in the armor.  And he could always give Steve the override codes.  It still wouldn’t do much about Steve’s tendency to trust him—to give him the benefit of the doubt—to let his guard down.  But it was better than nothing, wasn’t it?  
  
Tony thought about how helpless he’d felt, on his back, Steve deep inside him, his weight and strength pushing Tony into the bed.  It kind of made sense that he’d wanted that, didn’t it? he realized with a sense of wry self-consciousness.  He’d been so afraid—so afraid of the things he’d done, and there Steve was, holding him down, leaving Tony helpless, his legs spread wide, his body wide open for Steve in every way.  Oh, jeez, Tony thought, and realized he was blushing.  He hadn’t meant for his issues to be so damn obvious.  
  
“What is it?” Steve asked, fingertips trailing gently down the back of Tony’s neck, and Tony flushed hotter, coughed into his hand.  
  
“Nothing,” he said.  “I just.  Was thinking that I’ve been a little obvious, with the whole—wanting you to fuck me thing.”  
  
“Don’t let a lot of fellas do that, huh?” Steve said.  He sounded a little smug.  Well, Tony couldn’t blame him, especially since it was true.  
  
“Yeah, no,” he said with a little laugh.  “Not much.  You’re the third guy I’ve ever, um, bottomed for that way.  In my life.”  
  
Steve smiled, his ears going pink, looking touched and a little self-conscious at that.  “Guy?” he said after a moment.  
  
“Well, person with a penis,” Tony said, and nudged him in the stomach with a grin to cover how silly and vulnerable he still felt.  “I’ve let a few people do it with a strap-on, before.”  
  
Steve just smiled at him, stroked a hand gently down his back, eyes soft and warm and full.  “I’m honored,” he said.  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Tony said with a little bit of a laugh.  
  
“I’m sorry I can’t say the same,” Steve said, but he was grinning, despite his blush.  “Plenty of people been there before you.  And, uh, so have I.  With the, uh, the strap-ons.  Hope you don’t mind.”  
  
Tony laughed.  “Not at all,” he said.  “You’re beautiful, you know that.  How can I blame you—or them for wanting a piece of you?  I’m glad you got a lot of chances to indulge yourself in that pleasure.  I saw how much you like it.”  Steve smiled, but he was blushing so hot Tony would have bet he could have felt it half a foot away.  He sat up, threw a leg over Steve’s, and leaned in, cupped his face in his hands and smiled at him.  “But your pretty ass is all mine now, right, peaches?” he said softly, teasingly, and Steve blushed so prettily, all the way down over his chest.  
  
“Yeah,” he said.  “All yours.  For as long as you want it.  Um.  Me.”  
  
“Sweetheart,” Tony said, and kissed him, and they ended up kissing for a long time.  A long, long time.  Steve was hard again before too long, rolling his hips up into Tony, arching his back, and Tony couldn’t resist taking Steve up on that offer—Steve came so easily for three fingers inside him, with Tony’s mouth on his cock.  Afterwards, Steve was a blushing mess, even as they showered again and Tony finally got dressed.  He felt a lot more—normal, as he watched Steve toweling his hair dry, reached out and slid his fingers gently through Steve’s damp hair.  Steve just blushed softly and leaned his head into Tony’s touch, slid his hand up over Tony’s back.  
  
He was so beautiful, so gorgeous, and it was more than just his physical beauty—it was just who Steve was, in his heart, that made him so damn beautiful to Tony.  It always would.  Tony let Steve curl their fingers together as he brought them down from his hair.  
  
“I guess I should start figuring out what to do about all this,” he said, and Steve made a questioning sound.  
  
“Morgan, I mean,” Tony said.  “I’m gonna head up to the Restoration Project, all right, sugar?”  Steve smiled, mostly at the endearment, Tony thought.  “I need to use the internet.  Since Morgan already knows I’m here, more likely than not, I’m going to risk it, and I need to see some of his financial records.”  He winced, hoping Steve wasn’t going to think that was awful, him hacking into his own cousin’s private information, but Steve was just nodding.  “And if I’m up there,” Tony said, “if he decides to do something about and tracks the IP, well, I’ll be there waiting for him, won’t I?”  
  
“I hope you plan to be prepared,” Steve said.  
  
“Oh, I’m gonna take a briefcase,” Tony said, swallowing a little too hard, and he could see on Steve’s face that he knew exactly what he meant.  “And I was, um, also hoping to take some backup in the form of Captain America.”  
  
“You got me,” Steve instantly.  “Let me get my shield.”  
  
“I don’t deserve you,” Tony breathed, and pressed his lips against Steve’s knuckles, but Steve just smiled and shook his head, leaned in, brushed a kiss against Tony’s cheek, and then stood up to get dressed.


	10. What Can I Do But Always Hold On To You

When they headed out to go to the Restoration Project, Tony felt oddly full of energy, nervous energy, like it was crackling and tight under his skin, like he was full of static electricity.  He’d thought it would feel terrible to try to go and do something about this thing with Morgan, all anxiety and nausea, but anxious as he was, it actually felt—almost good, to be finally doing something.  Like all this this nervous energy had been building up inside him, and now he was finally doing something, letting it out.  He found himself almost bouncing on the balls of his feet as they got out there, cracking his knuckles as they let themselves in and he got as far as the computer he used during work hours.  “Okay,” he said.  “Let’s do this.”  
  
Steve slid his shield out of his artist’s portfolio and onto his arm.  “Okay,” he said.  
  
“Are you—” Tony hesitated.  “Are you just going to stand there and be my bodyguard?”  
  
Steve smiled a little.  “Yeah,” he said.  “That was the idea.  No matter how long it takes.”  He squeezed Tony’s shoulder.  “Do whatever you’ve got to do.”  
  
Tony wasn’t sure he actually _had_ to do this and hack into Morgan’s financial records, but he also had a feeling Morgan had been up to a lot more than he’d realized, and he felt responsible for that.  After all, Morgan was employed by Stark-Fujikawa, wasn’t he?  How likely would that have been if Tony wasn’t-who he was?  If Morgan was going to the lengths of hiring Paladin and Firebrand to find Tony and do—whatever it was he’d hired them to do, odds were he was hiding something, not just worried that Tony might return from the dead and ruin a cushy position for him.  When had Tony ever been that vindictive when it came to Morgan, after all?  As far as Tony could remember, he’d always just let Morgan mind his own business.  It was Morgan who’d started the trouble they’d had every time.  
  
Though he doubted Morgan saw it that way.  So maybe he did see Tony existing at all as a threat to his cushy position.  Tony didn’t know.  He really didn’t know what went on in Morgan’s head.  But he wanted to find out what was going on, and this seemed like a good place to start.  
  
One thing Tony had done when he’d gotten back was familiarize himself with all the changes in computer technology that had happened since the last time he could remember.  That had actually been fun.  And, after all, he’d wanted to make sure all his accounts were still secure.  There was no one else he trusted with that kind of work, not even Rhodey.  He’d checked over the Avengers accounts, too.  He’d told himself that it was the least he could do.  He looked at Steve sideways out of the corner of his eye, his noble profile, the way he was standing there in a partially ready stance as if he expected Firebrand to come busting in the windows at any minute.  It had been that remote access—and the transfer of money, sure—that had tipped Steve off to his being still alive.  
  
He’d thought it might and he’d done it anyway.  Maybe he’d subconsciously wanted Steve to find him?  He hadn’t thought about it at the time—he’d tried to cover his tracks, but—  
  
Oh, well.  
  
It didn’t take long to get what he needed.  And then it was more than obvious what Morgan was worried about.  Tony had remembered the way he’d tried to steal from him after Tony’s own funeral—he’d been just a teenager, and it had not been easy at all to figure out how to stop him from getting the armors and as a result more than likely realizing who was Iron Man.  He probably wouldn’t have been able to do it without Rhodey’s help.  Luckily he’d had it.  
  
But Morgan had gotten plenty of the rest of his designs.  Not the repulsor tech or anything like that, thankfully.  But enough that Tony didn’t like seeing out on the market—just the formulas for some of the alloys he used in the armor were bad enough.  
  
And if it had just been a matter of giving them to Fujikawa, that would be one thing.  Of course Tony would have preferred to maintain control of his company, but Kenjiro Fujikawa was a good man, and he had standards, even if he was a bit old-fashioned about everything about technology.  
  
Tony couldn’t help sparing another glance at Steve.  Fujikawa-san probably wouldn’t see it that way, but he definitely had some things in common with Steve.  They were about as stubborn as each other, too.  It was just that Fujikawa-san was old enough to be Tony’s grandfather.  
  
Well, technically, so was Steve, he guessed, in some ways.  
  
That wasn’t the point, though, and Tony was trying to avoid thinking about what he was seeing again.  Morgan had sold a good number of his designs—transistors and metallurgy and some of his software systems, it looked like—to Baintronics.  
  
_Baintronics_.  Seriously, Morgan?  Tony felt a little anxious tightening at the pit of his stomach just at the thought, a wave of nausea, and swallowed hard, took a deep breath, against it.  
  
Sunset Bain, okay.  He bet she’d been the one to approach Morgan.  He’d bet anything on it.  
  
His first serious girlfriend.  Tony had adored her.  Thought he’d been so lucky to be with her—he’d practically worshipped the ground she’d walked on.  And then she’d asked for access to Stark designs, and he’d shown them off to her, like an idiot, showing off, really, and—  
  
Well, Baintronics had had its first successes off the tech he’d shown her.  His dad had been furious.  And then Howard had been dead, and everything, Stark, all of it, had been Tony’s.  And he hadn’t really seen Sunset since.  She’d dropped him like a hot rock.  
  
Tony rubbed the back of his neck, rubbed one hand across his face.  
  
Sunset Bain.  
  
Well, he had a fix for the transistors and the software systems.  The same one he’d used during the time he’d gone after everyone with his stolen tech.  The negator packs he’d built then, to disable any of his designs being used in a given piece of technology, would still work.  If he just upgraded them to infiltrate the networks at Baintronics—there shouldn’t be any workarounds.  
  
And he could probably just—what, break in and destroy the formulas for the alloys?  He’d done it before.  
  
There was just one problem.  Tony gave Steve a look.  Steve hadn’t exactly approved of how he’d handled things back then, the last time destroying his tech once it had gotten into the hands of others had come up.  Steve had called what he’d done reckless and dangerous.  And, well, maybe he hadn’t been wrong.  But this wouldn’t be like that.  It was just—well, Tony couldn’t let Sunset have access to that software.  The software in particular.  The rest of it he could live with, but he wouldn’t be happy about it.  But the software would give her and anyone else who really got into the code backdoors into Stark systems he didn’t want out there.  And sure, yeah, none of his really secure systems would be at risk, but that software had never been meant for the open market.  It had been meant for SHIELD.  Sunset having it was a security risk.  He hadn’t realized Morgan had ever had access to that stuff.  
  
_Thanks, Morgan._   What a headache.  
  
“What is it?” Steve asked.  Tony sighed.  
  
“Um,” he said.  “Turns out, apparently, that, uh, Morgan’s been selling some of my old tech to people I’d prefer not to have it.”  He knew he was shifting nervously, uncomfortably, in his seat, and forced himself to stop.  “I have, uh, ways to get rid of it, you know?  Delete it from their systems.  It’s just—last time you weren’t exactly on board.  With, uh, that.”  
  
“Oh,” Steve said.  “I—Tony.”  He got down on one knee, beside Tony’s chair, reached out and laid a hand on his knee.  It felt very, very warm.  “It wasn’t you wanting to control who had your designs I had a problem with,” he said earnestly.  “It was the way you went about getting it back from the Guardsmen.  It was a serious security risk when it came to the prisoners incarcerated in the Vault, and—well, you know what happened.”  
  
Tony winced.  Yes, he did.  It hadn’t been Rhodey’s fault, but between him and Rhodey, they’d disabled the Stark tech the Guardsmen were using, and as a result enabled a massive prison break in the Vault, the main penitentiary the United States government had used for superpowered criminals at the time.  Not on purpose, of course, but it had still happened as a result of their actions.  And he’d disabled Steve in the process.  Not his finest moment.  At all.  
  
“Yeah,” he said.  “I, uh.  I was being reckless.  And arrogant, just like you said.  And,” he swallowed.  “I’m sorry.”  
  
Steve smiled, reached up and cupped his hand against Tony’s cheek, rubbing it gently.  “I forgave you for that one a long time ago, fella,” he said.  “I know how you feel about other people having your designs.  And for good reason.  You weren’t wrong on that count.  Besides, we all make mistakes.  I know you didn’t mean for that to happen.”  
  
“I’m sorry I’ve been so out of control,” Tony whispered.  “It’s just—I always—it all felt like—I felt like I had to do it at the time, like I—like I had to it all, everything, at once, and I—” he swallowed, ran his hands over his face.  “I’m sorry, Steve.  I’m still not sure why you want me to go back to being an Avenger.  I’m just a—a loose cannon.”  
  
“You hold yourself to a higher standard than any of the rest of us,” Steve murmured.  “We’ve all done things that seemed like a good idea at the time and turned out to be really goddamn stupid in retrospect.  You know that.”  He cupped Tony’s face in his hands, stroked his jaw gently, then kissed his forehead.  Tony squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep, shaking breath.  “I want you to go back to being an Avenger because I think you’d be good for the team, and good at it, and because I think Iron Man is important, and because, well, I want you by my side.  I want to lead the team with you again.  That’s selfish, I know it, but it’s not just selfish.  I know the Avengers are better with you than without you.”  
  
Tony took a deep, shaking breath.  “Everything I build is.  Is . . . a weapon,” he said.  “if my designs were so harmless, why would it be so important that other people didn’t have them?  I’m just—I—am I putting anything good into this world at all?  What have I built that isn’t just—just another form of destruction?”  
  
“Tony,” Steve said, and his voice sounded thick.  His hands dropped down, took both of Tony’s in their broad, strong palms, and squeezed.  “Tony, you built the _Avengers_.”  
  
Tony took a breath—and swallowed hard, almost swallowed his tongue.  He looked at Steve, and Steve looked up at him, sincere and earnest, his face open and clear, his eyes bright with emotion.  
  
“I—” Tony said, and had to swallow again.  “I—”  
  
The alarm he’d installed after Firebrand had attacked last time went off.  
  
“Oh, shit,” Tony said, and spun back to the computer, quickly logged out of everything, shut down the programs he’d been using, then the computer itself.  He dove for his briefcase—good thing he’d been focusing on building a mobile armor, wasn’t it?  Steve got his shield up, and a second later, turned on his heel for the stairs.  “I’ll head out on the ground floor,” he said, and Tony nodded, already pulling the pieces of the armor on.  “Take care,” he said, his eyes full and strained with emotion, and Tony stopped what he was doing, reached out, and grabbed Steve’s hand, pulled it close enough to press a kiss to the palm.  “You, too,” he told him.  “No burns this time, all right?”  
  
Steve smiled a little, quickly.  “I’ll do my best,” he said, sketched Tony a little salute, and headed out, just like he’d said.  
  
Tony finished suiting up and flew out the still broken window from last time.  
  
He actually hadn’t thought that whoever Morgan might send would show up that night—and he was pretty sure this wasn’t because his hack had been detected.  No, this was probably just a case of really, really ironic timing.  That being said, he came out to see Firebrand preparing to light the place up, and no sign of Steve.  
  
“Don’t you start,” he said, and it was still so strange to hear Iron Man’s voice, the electronic crackle the suit gave it, coming out of his mouth again.  “Pretty sure your problem is with me.”  
  
“Pretty sure my problem is with Tony Stark,” Firebrand retorted.  “I thought he was in hiding, _Iron Man_ , but what, he still takes his bodyguard everywhere?”  
  
“Mr. Stark called me in after the last time,” Tony said.  “After he’d been forced to suit up to fight you off himself.  You won’t find me quite so easy to get away from.”  Big talk, but the bravado sounded so stupid in his own ears.  After all, it was really just him in here, and he was just as rusty as he’d been last time, practically speaking.  He still wasn’t even sure he could bring himself to fire his own repulsors without vomiting or shaking to the floor a nervous wreck.  But hey, it wasn’t going to hurt him to do his best to shore up his secret identity however he could, whether he went back to being Iron Man, anyone else did, or what.  
  
“So you did turn back up with the other heroes,” Firebrand said.  “You wouldn’t believe how much speculation there’s been about that in the corporate shills people call the _news media_.”  He said that with the same sneering disgust most people used for foot fungus and things you’d left in the refrigerator about a year too long.  
  
“Needed to take some time for myself,” Tony said.  “Mr. Stark was understanding, since he was in about the same boat.  Look, if you came here to fight, can we take it away from the town?  You tend to be a little destructive.”  
  
“I’m here to find Tony Stark,” Firebrand said.  “I have a score to settle with him and the ways his corporation has damaged the world around us.”  
  
So he was working for _Morgan_.  Who worked for Stark-Fujikawa.  Who had pretty much the same environmental record Stark Industries had had.  Right.  Because that made sense.  “So you took a job to find him from Morgan Stark?” Tony asked.  He fired the bootjets and started a slow, lazy trajectory away from the Restoration Project headquarters.  
  
“I was hired by Paladin to find him!” Firebrand shouted after him, and then fired his jetpack and was after him.  “And I took the job for my own reasons!”  
  
“Great,” Tony said, and well, did it clear a few things up, at least, and as soon as they were over the river that looped over the outskirts of the town, he flipped himself over and fired his bootjets to send him straight at Firebrand in what was basically a football tackle in midair.  He grabbed him around the middle, brought his hand back in an armored fist, and punched him.  
  
It felt nowhere _near_ as bad as he’d thought it might to hit someone again.  Why was Firebrand always the one showing up when he was trying to lose himself somewhere?  Like he had when Steve had confronted him in that flophouse, almost burned it to the ground with Tony inside it.  It was like he had some kind of “Tony Stark is depressed” radar.  Though he was pretty sure this guy was a different guy than the old Firebrand.  It was still weird.  
  
“Listen,” he said.  “You want Mr. Stark, you’re going to have to go through me.”  
  
He wasn’t sure if Paladin was here too—after Steve and Firebrand had mentioned him, he was betting he was—but maybe that was where Steve had gone off to.  After all, Steve had gotten tangled up with Paladin before, hadn’t he?  Tony wanted to make sure there was no way Firebrand could do any damage to the town again, though, or to Steve, and fighting him over water seemed like his best bet.  
  
Firebrand let off a barrage of flame right in Tony’s face, but this was a new model of the armor, and it didn’t so much as begin to do it any damage.  
  
“You’ll have to do better than that,” he muttered, and grappled with him, Firebrand doing his best to stop him as he tried to reach for the controls of his flamethrowers.  Steve had had the right idea.  Get rid of those and the jetpack, and Firebrand was just a man in a can.  
  
Of course, he knew that as well as Tony did, and he wasn’t about to make it easy for him.  Plus, he knew his main advantage here was going to be causing collateral damage Tony had to go out of his way to prevent, so he really was making an effort to get back toward the town.  It was all he could do to keep Firebrand up over the river for a while.  
  
He really was rusty.  
  
But that was before he saw a flash of something that might have been Steve’s shield, and he looked down to see something—some _one_?—fly out of the windows of the Restoration Project building and land in the river where it curved past the building.  It was automatic to dive down where he’d seen the splash, under the water, and link one armored arm around whoever it was, dragging the heavy weight of a water-logged human form, heavy with clothing, up with him.  Whether it was Steve or not, he wasn’t about to let anyone drown.  
  
But then he could see it was Steve, floundering to get his head up above water, gasping for breath, a second before he got his arms around him, and he felt it as his breath came short for a moment, a sudden pounding of adrenaline through his veins, in his heart, because God, Steve, what was he doing, getting himself thrown into the river like this, he needed to be more careful—  
  
Steve gasped for breath in his arms, hair plastered to his head as he twisted around, wrapped an arm around Tony’s shoulders through the armor, getting his foot on top of Tony’s jetboot almost automatically.  Tony was relieved to see the shield still on his arm.  He coughed, gasped for breath, dripping all over Tony’s armor, the water just gushing off his wet clothes, pouring off the shield, off of him, and smiled up at Tony.  There was a bruise already forming, big and nasty, over his eye, his cheekbone, on one side of his face.  “Rescued me again, Shellhead,” he said, grinning up at Tony like they’d just been having a great time sparring, or maybe like they’d been in bed together.  It was the same smile.  Not at all like they were in the middle of a fight—but that was Steve for you.  “You—you,” he coughed, “should see the other fella, I swear.”  Water was dripping off his damp, flattened hair, down over his ear, down his neck.  
  
“You all right?” Tony asked, curling his arm more firmly around Steve’s waist, though he did seem to be balancing easily enough on Tony’s boot, and he looked all right, aside from that nasty bruise.  His eyes looked all right.  He ran a scan over Steve, and the only things that came up on his readouts were bruises—it was a relief that his shield arm wasn’t broken, which it could have been if he used it to block something that could send him flying out a window, then fell badly.  Firebrand was coming at him again, but Tony spun them around, out of his reach for another second.  
  
“Just fine,” Steve said, his face softening, his hand coming up to press against the armor’s faceplate, briefly.  “I promise.  Just been having some trouble with Paladin.  Don’t know if you know him, but he’s good.  We’ve met before.  I promise I’m doing fine, though.  He just had some minor explosives, and I didn’t expect the kick they had.”  He grinned again.  “I swear, though, he’s much worse off than I am.  I’m holding my own.  And hey, at least I’m not on fire.”  
  
That wasn’t funny.  
  
Firebrand was still coming after him, so Tony dove down toward the side of the Restoration Project building, evading him for the moment, and his gouts of flame, to set Steve down as gently as he could on the pavement just outside the building.  Steve had his footing in another second, because he was Steve.  “I want to see you do better than hold your own, buster, you hear me?” he told him, and Steve grinned and saluted him again.  
  
“Yes, sir,” he said.  “Now get back to what you were doing yourself,” and turned to go jogging back toward the building.  
  
Tony turned his hover into a swooping turn back up and hit Firebrand in midair to send them both tumbling back out over the river again.  Actually—  
  
There was an idea.  It was obvious, honestly.  The only problem would be getting Firebrand down low enough, because he obviously was just as aware of how awkward the river would make firing his flamethrowers as Tony was.  That was the trick, wasn’t it?  But if he got him under the water, it would be a lot easier to disable his systems, considering what Tony was 99% sure they relied on to work.  It would be easier if he didn’t have to think about firing his own repulsors, he thought uncomfortably, almost guiltily.  
  
He threw himself at Firebrand, grabbing for his arm and pushing it down, using the momentum of the armor and his own body in it to swing him around, push him down toward the water.  The jetpack he used wasn’t as stable as Tony’s armor was, never had been, and it was immediately obvious he’d pushed him off balance.  He felt rusty, clumsy and slow.  He fired his jetboots to push Firebrand over, back down toward the river, and Firebrand fired another burst of flame, as if to try to blow Tony back off him.  His sensors flared, warning him of the dangerous heat, and he was starting to feel it on his cheeks and forehead, sweat dripping down his back, heat making Steve’s dogtags hot as an ember against his skin under his shirt, but he hung on stubbornly, gripping Firebrand tight and rolling them over again to try to push him down toward the water.  
  
They grappled for a frustratingly long time, Firebrand trying to use the burst of momentum from Tony firing his bootjets to corkscrew them in midair, letting off continuous gouts of flame.  Finally, though, Tony was able to twist him around, and with another burst of his bootjets, clumsy as it was, sent them crashing down into the shallow water on the edge of the river.  Firebrand’s fist came up, caught Tony in the face and sent his head rocking back, snapping back hard enough that it hurt and he definitely felt like he’d have whiplash the next day, but it was instinct to punch back, half-pulling the blow like he always did with baseline human opponents.  They traded a few more punches, rolling over in the water, but Tony was honestly relieved as they rolled over into deeper water and sank underneath it.  He grabbed Firebrand and banged him against the bottom of the river, once, twice, then grabbed for the mechanisms of his flame-throwers.  One yank, ripping away metal and tubes of fluid, two, and then he was digging his gauntlets into what looked like the control mechanism and ripping it away.  Lighter fluid of some type was spilling out into the river, and Tony gave a wince at the probable environmental damage and made a mental note to see if he could find any money anywhere to help pay for cleanup, a second before he went for the flamethrower on the other arm.  
  
Firebrand hit him a few more times, got his arm around Tony’s neck and tried to squeeze, tried to twist his helmet off.  He ended up surging up, getting Tony onto his back, beating his head against the bottom of the river.  Tony could feel it bouncing along the rocks, but he didn’t really care, because this gave him a better angle to grab at the wires and tubes that led into the jetpack Firebrand was using.  He could feel it as it gave way and fluid poured out of it, and was glad they were underwater, because he wasn’t sure how flammable that was.  Firebrand swore, hit him again, and Tony fired his bootjets and slammed Firebrand into the shore of the river, hauled back, and hit him again.  
  
When Firebrand was groggy and not doing much other than cursing him out, Tony grabbed him around the waist and took off into the air.  He dropped him down outside the back of the Restoration Project building, grabbed one of the big pieces of rebar out of the construction supplies and equipment they kept there, and used the strength of the armor to bend it around his hands until he was sure he was effectively immobilized.  Firebrand wasn’t talking much, so he bent down, made sure he got a good look at his eyes, but he seemed all right for now, and picked him up again with a burst of his bootjets against the ground and went to look for Steve.  He wasn’t about to just leave Firebrand there to get into trouble, after all.  
  
He found Steve with no trouble.  Paladin was there, all right—Tony hadn’t had too many run-ins with him before, but he recognized him vaguely.  Mercenary.  Purple composite armor.  He was almost tempted just to stand there and watch, for a second, because, well—well, he hadn’t really seen Steve in action for a long time.  He let Firebrand slide down like a sack of potatoes, and let the man curse him without really listening.  He’d heard it all before, he was sure.  
  
Still, Paladin was using some kind of super powered stun gun, and Tony didn’t want to just stand there and watch Steve fight him.  And as soon as he’d heard the bootjets, Paladin had given him a considering look that Tony hadn’t really liked.  
  
Steve ducked under one of his hits, came up with a strong blow from his shield, that had Paladin staggering back, though he looked awfully unfazed, considering what hits from Steve and his shield usually did to people.  Steve was looking a little worse for wear—there was that bruise, and he was still drying off from his dip in the river, but from more than that, too.  His movements were tight and intense, and he seemed more focused on the fight than usual, like he needed to be.  
  
“So, Iron Man is here, after all,” Paladin said, after casting a glance down at Firebrand.  He blocked another hit from Steve, light on his feet as he danced back a few steps.  Steve gave Tony a glance and smiled, quickly, then turned back to him, settling into a ready stance and raising his shield.  “Oh, well, good help is hard to find.  You get what you pay for.”  
  
“Hey,” Firebrand said.  “That’s a little uncalled for.  Fuck you.”  
  
“I barely had to pay you at all, you wanted to go after Tony Stark so bad,” Paladin said.  But his eyes were on Steve, and Tony had a feeling he was enjoying the fight.  Certain types of bad guys got like that about Steve.  About testing their skills against him.  It was something about how physical Steve was, how he always put everything he’d been given into being a superhero, his whole body, relied on that and nothing else.  A lot of his villains were kind of obsessed with proving themselves against him physically.  The ones who weren’t obsessed with him ideologically.  But Tony could get being into Steve, definitely.  “I had a feeling you’d be here somewhere,” he said, and this time Tony could tell he was talking to Steve.  
  
“You didn’t follow me, did you?” Steve murmured, and from the tightness of his mouth, the hunch of his shoulders, it was obvious how much the thought of that bothered him.  Oh, Steve.  Tony wanted to tell him that it was all right, that it wasn’t his fault, but Steve had telegraphed enough of his feelings to Paladin already; Tony didn’t need to help with that.  
  
“Didn’t have to,” Paladin said with a laugh.  “I had other ways of finding what I was after.”  
  
“Mr. Stark figured it was the paper trail,” Tony said.  
  
“Something like that,” Paladin said.  He stepped forward, almost tauntingly, and Steve responded, adjusting his ready stance.  Their eyes were so fixed on each other Tony felt a little like a third wheel.  Dominant male monkey thing, Jesus.  
  
Though that wasn’t really fair to Steve.  Steve was just trying to protect him.  Tony knew that.  
  
“Hey,” he said.  “Why don’t we all just calm down?  We can talk about who sent you.  I’m sure Mr. Stark would offer you good money not to cause a fuss here.”  
  
“Can’t break a contract,” Paladin said.  “I’m a professional.”  And he was grinning, eyes on Steve.  He had something in mind.  
  
“Cap, look out,” Tony said, disturbed by the look on his face.  “He’s planning something.”  
  
Steve probably wanted to tell him not to be a mother hen, and that he’d been superheroing since before Tony was even born, but he managed to restrain himself.  He reacted the same moment Paladin sprang into action, catching the shot of his stun gun on his shield, then spinning it around to trap it against Paladin’s arm and getting him with a quick hit to his face.  Paladin got a foot under him, and they both went down.  Tony could see it when Paladin got Steve with the stun gun, though, shoved it right up against his chest and fired—Steve seized up all over, jerking with it, and Tony’s sensors were showing him enough electrical impulses to scramble the signals of an elephant’s nervous system.  Which made it all the more impressive that a moment later Steve was bringing his shield up, knocking Paladin in the face with it, hard enough to knock him back, before he fell back, away, gasping and twitching.  Tony wasn’t sure if he was still conscious.  
  
He was stepping forward before he knew what he was doing, the heavy steps of the armor feeling even heavier to him, suddenly, somehow.  He was reminded of how he’d walked over to Amanda, raised the repulsor, all before he’d fired it.  Before he killed her.  
  
It was even the same position, standing over someone on the ground.  Tony raised his hand, revved up the repulsor, turned his palm out.  “Don’t try anything cute,” he said.  “I will blow your head off.”  
  
“Everyone knows Avengers don’t kill,” Paladin laughed, even though his mouth was bleeding, despite his helmet.  
  
“Haven’t you heard?” Tony said, and it came out sounding so bitter.  “I’m special.”  He could see Paladin was getting ready to fire his stun gun a moment later, so he brought his hand down and fired before he could.  
  
His vision went dark for a moment, and he felt faint, fear and tension and nausea all clenching up tight with adrenaline inside him, but when he opened his eyes again, Paladin’s stun-gun was smoking.  His aim had been good.  Tony took a breath.  “I told you,” he said, grabbed the remains of it out of his hand, and used his own armor to emit a stunning flare that had Paladin knocked out on the ground a moment later.  
  
Steve was behind him, he realized a moment later.  He put his hand on his shoulder, and Tony felt himself shaking.  If he’d been out of the armor, he’d have grabbed Steve’s dogtags in his hand, held them tight to his chest.  
  
“Thanks, Iron Man,” Steve said.  He sounded rueful.  “I guess I wasn’t a whole lot of help, after all.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that,” Tony said.  “I’m sure they had some kind of tandem plan we interrupted.  You interrupted, really.”  _And I’d never have been able to do that, fire that shot, if you weren’t here,_ he thought and didn’t say.  But when it had come right down to it, Steve had been in danger.  He hadn’t even really thought.  Just—felt. Just done it. Because he’d needed to.  
  
Just like the old days, really.  Hadn’t that always how it had been, being Iron Man?  He’d just—had to do something, and found himself suiting up before he’d known it, again and again?  
  
He’d forgotten that, he guessed.  He wished he could feel Steve’s hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You doing okay?” he asked, turning back toward him.  He powered one repulsor down, even as he raised his hand, cupped the palm of the armor, repulsor and all, against Steve’s chin, raised his head.  “Being out here hasn’t been too healthy for you, has it?  I’m sorry.”  
  
Steve just smiled.  “I’m fine,” he said.  “It didn’t feel any too great in the moment, but I’m right as rain, trust me.”  His eyes softened.  “I probably could have taken him, you know,” he said.  “You didn’t have to—to do that.”  
  
“I didn’t want to just stand there,” Tony said, a little stung.  God, what had he wanted, Steve’s approval?  He was so fucking stupid.  He let his hand drop.  “I’m not that useless.”  
  
“Never useless,” Steve murmured.  He laid a hand on Tony’s chest, right over the unibeam.  “Hey, Shellhead,” he said.  “I’m proud of you.  You did exactly right.  Just what any Avenger would have done.”  
  
Tony would have felt stupid for how warm, how—how special and light and sparking and hot that made him feel, but he was a little too busy feeling warm, and a little dizzy.  “Yeah,” he said, and even he could hear how gruff it came out sounding.  “Thanks, Cap.  Means a lot, coming from you.”  
  
“Oh, God,” Firebrand said.  “Are you two always like this?  Is this a hero thing?  Its it a partnership thing?  Jesus Christ, I didn’t know signing up for a double act would be so fucking fraught.”  
  
“Oh, shut up,” Tony said.  “You’re going to jail.  You can talk to the small-town cops about the military industrial complex.  Maybe they’ll even listen.”  
  
“Fuck you, capitalist pig,” Firebrand said, sounding tired.  “You’re incapable of seeing beyond your own wage slavery.”  
  
“Hey, Mr. Stark pays me very well,” Tony said, purposefully obtuse, because it was funny to watch Firebrand scowl at him.  If he hadn’t been so all about burning things up that ordinary people relied on and needed and collateral damage that put them in danger, Tony might have had more sympathy for his position.  
  
Steve put his hand over his mouth like he was trying not to chuckle.  He was probably too nice to laugh out loud.  Or he agreed with Firebrand’s political stance too much to laugh at that.  Steve was more than a little on the red side himself, kind of a dark pink, when it came to politics, though he’d managed to never call Tony a capitalist pig.  So far.  
  
Tony realized he was feeling a little giddy.  “Guess I’d better turn him in, Captain Courageous,” he said.  “I’ve got work to do.”  
  
“If you do, we both do,” Steve said, stubbornly, eyes fixed faithfully on Tony’s face.  “Count on that.  Count on _me_.”  
  
Tony had to swallow hard at that.  He didn’t know what to say, so he just reached up enough to squeeze Steve’s shoulder, repeating his earlier gesture.  
  
Steve just smiled and squeezed his hand over the gauntlet.  
  
Tony was itching to confront Morgan.  For the longest time he hadn’t wanted to even think about it, barely wanted to acknowledge who he was, let alone that he had a scumbag cousin who wanted everything Tony had ever had.  If you had asked him for a while there, Tony would have said that Morgan was welcome to Stark.  But that was crazy, and what was worse, an abdication of his responsibilities.  Now it felt sick, a twisting, tightening nausea in his stomach, to think of Morgan with his hands on any of the things Tony had tried to build over the years, and that nausea transformed instantly into anger with every twist in his stomach.  God, selling it to Sunset Bain, of all people.  Did Morgan know about Tony’s history with her, what a weak-willed idiot he’d been with her, letting her lead him around by his cock?  Was it a dig at him, selling it to her?  Or had Sunset just fed him some line and he’d bought it hook, line, and sinker?  
  
Just like Tony had.  He didn’t want to think about him and Morgan having that in common.  
  
So yeah, he wanted to confront Morgan right away.  He was practically shaking with it, a kind of sick anger that he hardly ever felt, because Morgan had sent people after Tony without any care for the innocent people around him, had turned Tony into someone who was a danger to those he’d cared about all over again, and had sold off things Tony had worked on without him knowing anything about it.  To Sunset Bain.  It was—it was shocking, actually, just how violating it felt.  It was like something in his mind, hell, maybe even his heart, had snapped back into place, made his vision come clear, and he was _Tony Stark_ again in a way he hadn’t been, hadn’t felt, since—he didn’t even know when.  Before Kang, he was pretty sure.  Before Kang it had felt like he was—was sliding downwards, on a slippery slope of control issues and paranoia, and he’d thought he’d been doing fine at the time, but now when he looked back on it it just felt like—like he’d been spiraling out of control and hadn’t even known, dark and clouded.  
  
It was strange that now, even when he felt like he was about to vibrate apart from anxiety, from nervous energy, filling him up from the inside out until he felt about to spill over with it, he felt—brighter.  Lighter.  Like everything was going to be better, now.  Like he’d opened up a window and realized that it was daytime outside, and what the world actually looked like in daylight, no more looming shadows, and the buildings, the trees, the sidewalk, the people, everything back in perspective.  
  
It was daytime outside, and Steve was there beside him.  He’d called Fury, after Tony had told him to, to come pick up Firebrand and Paladin.  Steve had insisted they didn’t have to tell Fury anything, stubbornly, even though of course he was more than smart enough to realize that the second Steve had called him Fury had probably started putting things together.  But that was Steve for you, too, stubborn as hell, impossibly determined to keep to a cause, noble to a fault when it came to keeping his word, and he’d given Tony his word to keep his secret.  Of course.  
  
Tony was pretty sure Fury had just been waiting to give Steve his shot with Tony—convincing him to go back to being Tony Stark, that was, and, God, he hoped Fury didn’t know they were sleeping together, not yet, just because he wanted it to be—to be private, special, what they’d shared here in his ratty little apartment above the autoshop—and that he’d have shown up himself if Steve had shown signs of failure and headed back to the Avengers.  Now that he was thinking about, he was sure Fury had figured it out at least by the time Steve came back to him after that last mission.  But he wouldn’t have changed it for the world.  
  
So he just told Steve to tell Fury, as soon as Steve had dried off a little and changed into his Cap uniform, and then grabbed the negator packs he’d had with him ever since he’d first packed up to come here—yeah, okay, paranoid, he was still paranoid, and he realized that, but they had come in handy in the end, hadn’t they?—and headed back out to meet him.  
  
Fury just looked between the two of them, took a long drag of his cigar, and shook his head.  “You two are a pain in my ass, you know that?” he said.  
  
“The feeling’s mutual, Nick,” Tony told him, hovering then dropping to a landing beside Steve.  Steve smiled at him, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth that told Tony he’d felt the same way, at least on occasion.  
  
“I just bet,” Fury said.  “So, am I going to be seeing you back with the Avengers any time soon, _Iron Man_?”  
  
“Leave it,” Steve said.  “That’s Iron Man’s decision, and whatever decision he makes, he has my full support as chairperson of the Avengers.”  His tone said, in no uncertain terms, _Quite frankly, Nick, it’s none of your fucking business._  
  
God, Tony loved him.  He didn’t deserve him or his loyalty.  He wasn’t sure if he ever would.  
  
But he was starting to feel like maybe someday he could earn it.  If he was lucky.  If he went back.  If he gave it a shot.  
  
“Is that so?” Fury said, chewing on his cigar.  
  
“It is,” Steve said, all steadiness.  
  
“Is _that_ how it is?” Fury asked, looked at Steve.  
  
“That’s how it is,” Steve said, serene as anything.  
  
Holy fuck.  Had he just implied what Tony thought he’d implied?  Had he just told Fury he—he had _intentions_ toward Tony?  Nick Fury, of all people?  Just like that?  
  
“You two,” Fury said.  “You really are a pain in my ass.  Jesus.  Okay, fine.  Let me know if you plan on coming back to the land of the living, or if we’re all gonna keep playing cloak and dagger, _Eddie_.”  He rolled his eyes and stalked off, probably to collect the rest of the SHIELD agents babysitting their two miscreants and get out of there.  
  
“Did you just tell Fury we’ve—I mean we—we’re—” Tony heard himself stutter.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Shellhead,” Steve said, with a grin.  “I’ve been dating this swell guy named Eddie Chaney, works as an auto mechanic and volunteers his time at this nonprofit around here.  He’d a brilliant engineer.  Bet you’d like him.  Sweetest fella I’ve ever met, I swear.”  
  
“Winghead,” Tony said, and felt himself going hot.  “C’mon.”  
  
Steve’s hand found his, sought it out, despite the repulsor, and squeezed.  “So,” he said.  “Told you.  I’ve got your back.  What’s next?”  
  
“Seems like Morgan’s made a few unauthorized sales of Stark tech,” Tony said, uncertainly, wet his bottom lip, then took a deep breath.  He still wasn’t quite sure what Steve was going to make of this.  He still remembered the look on Steve’s face when he’d come upon him going after the Guardsmen.  So much of his memory was jumbled now, confused, but he still remembered that so damn clearly.  Because of course that was the way his memory would turn out.  “And, um.  I have a few problems with the people he sold them to.”  He didn’t have any proof, really, that Sunset was up to anything illegal these days.  And what she’d done before had been, well, maybe unethical, but he’d shown her those designs willingly, idiot kid that he’d been.  He didn’t know.  But he didn’t like it.  “I’m going to make sure those designs aren’t around anymore.  It’ll involve trespassing, probably some breaking and entering, so you don’t have to come along.”  
  
He was pretty sure he could handle it on his own, at least.  He still felt like he was panting a little from ramping adrenaline, felt cold and wet with cold sweat.  He hoped Steve couldn’t tell that his breath was coming a little too fast.  He felt like he was flying too fast and hard, too close to his altitude limit, just riding the edge of what he could handle, and he was sure that meant he was heading for one hell of a crash later, but—he had to do this now.  He had to, and take care of it, while he was riding this high, and—and prove to himself he still could.  Or when he crashed it’d be so much worse.  He knew that, somehow.  Knew he had to do this, had to go back out there and reclaim Tony Stark’s legacy, as much as he could.  Because whatever it was, even if it was murder and death, well, he wasn’t going to let Morgan and Sunset be the ones to decide what it was.  Or who got so much as a software program of his.  
  
He felt like he had to remind himself how to be Tony Stark.  And maybe, just maybe, the first part of that was seeing if he could still be Iron Man.  
  
And Iron Man had done this kind of thing before.  It was just that it had kind of made Steve hate him for it.  
  
“If you don’t want these people to have Stark tech, I know you have a good reason for it, fella,” Steve said, just like that, easy as anything, and Tony felt a strange, tingling shock spread through him, almost warm, almost dizzying.  “I’m with you.  Unless you’re planning to raid another federal prison.”  It was almost, joking, warm, almost like, somehow, he knew Tony wouldn’t have done that again.  Would do it differently, if he went back to that time, if he could.  
  
It was dizzying, confusing.  How could Steve know that?  They’d only talked about it the once, that Tony could remember.  And, well, earlier that day.  But still.  
  
“I, uh, no,” he said, trying to make a joke of it, match Steve’s warm, light tone, and knowing he hadn’t quite done it.  “Not on the agenda.  You—really?”  
  
“You’d have to tie me down to keep me away,” Steve said.  His hand came up, slid over Tony’s armored shoulder.  “If you want me there.  I’m right behind you.  Just tell me where we’re going.”  
  
“Um,” Tony said, and swallowed hard.  “Baintronics.  Rival electronics firm to Stark-Fujikawa.  Do you want a lift there?”  He awkwardly held out an arm, an offer he hoped was clear enough.  
  
Steve’s smile turned beaming and wide and somehow soft, sunny and bright, and he stepped forward into the circle of Tony’s arms, easy as anything, slinging his shield up so it rested behind Tony’s head, laying his other arm on Tony’s other shoulder.  “Do I ever,” he said.  “Thought you’d never ask, Shellhead.”  And he laughed, his eyes soft, ducking his head just a little, lashes falling forward over them, his expression so soft and full, emotion tucked into the curve of his smile.  
  
He was so damn sweet.  Tony felt something squeezing inside his chest.  “Your wish is my command,” he said, as lightly as he could, bringing his hand up to cup gently, rub just a little, along the back of Steve’s cowled head, before he took off.  He would have kissed him—he wanted to—but he had his helmet on and wasn’t taking it off for love or money with Fury and Morgan’s hirelings still in the immediate vicinity.  You never wanted to dare Murphy’s Law to smack you down that way by taking that kind of risk.  
  
Tony was glad Steve had his helmet on, because flying them to Seattle, despite the armor’s speed, would probably not have been a great idea without Steve having some protection.  When they landed outside, on Evergreen Island, Tony felt a surge of hot, tight anxiety, deep in his stomach, but he took a deep breath and pushed it down again, pressing his hands together even through the armor to steady himself.  
  
“So, this is it, huh?” Steve said from beside him.  
  
“Yeah, this is it,” Tony confirmed.  “Baintronics.  Run by Sunset Bain.  Uh—my first girlfriend.”  
  
Steve did a double-take, stared at him.  “Okay,” he said.  “There’s obviously more to that story, huh?”  
  
“Yeah,” Tony said grimly.  “Short version, I met her in college, I was a teenage idiot, thought she hung the moon, and the whole time, she just wanted Stark designs.  Security codes, to be more precise.  Which I showed her, to show off, like a moron.  She took whatever she wanted, and ended up making her company on the back of it.  Howard sure wasn’t very happy about that one.”  He took a deep breath, pushed back the sick sense of nauseous guilt.  He didn’t like that Sunset still had the power to affect him that much.  
  
“God, Tony,” Steve said.  Tony bit his lip and looked down, glad Steve couldn’t see his face through the helmet.  Steve must think he was a total idiot.  At least Tony had the excuse of having been a stupid teenager at the time.  
  
Steve’s hand came up, squeezed his shoulder.  Tony couldn’t feel it through the armor, but his sensors registered the pressure, and he could feel the vague press of the armor further in against his shoulder blade.  “I’m so sorry,” Steve said.  “Damn, you—that’s awful.”  
  
Oh.  “Well, live and learn,” Tony said, swallowing hard.  “I like to think I learned something from that, at least.”  
  
“Seems to me you’ve had too many lessons in why you should expect people to betray you,” Steve said, not moving his hand, “but you keep hoping anyway.”  
  
Tony swallowed again, and it felt thick, his throat aching.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Because I’m a fucking idiot.”  
  
“No,” Steve said.  “That’s not it at all.  Because you have a big, generous heart, and you always give people the benefit of the doubt if you can, despite being so damn paranoid it hurts, and I admire you for that.  So.  What next?”  
  
Tony blinked the stinging out of his eyes.  “I don’t deserve you,” he muttered.  
  
“No,” Steve said.  “That’s not it either, fella.  Being betrayed and treated like bullcrap by most of your other lovers—that’s what you didn’t deserve.”  His hand came up, squeezed at the back of Tony’s neck through the armor.  “You better believe it, mister.”  
  
“Honey,” Tony said, and hated how his voice had broken.  “Um.  Anyway.  We’re here now, so—well, I have negator packs that once I hook them up into the Baintronics system should find and nullify all my systems or programs they have installed.  And then I figured we could find the formulas for the alloys of mine Morgan sold them and get rid of those, too.”  
  
“I’m yours to command,” Steve said, smiling.  “Just tell me where you want me, and I’m there.”  
  
Tony started by disabling the security systems.  It was actually almost ridiculously easy to find the access points he was looking for and to wire the negator packs into them.  For a moment, the computer systems almost—flickered, and he paused, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, almost.  The code looked so damn familiar, and he couldn’t figure out why it might be.  It wasn’t based on the systems Sunset had taken from Stark, back in the day, he knew that much.  
  
The negator packs did their work even faster and more dramatically than Tony had expected, while Steve stood there and kept a good watch on him, almost like something was helping them along, helping search out his technology and wipe it out of the Baintronics network, all their systems.  Tony almost turned back to look at it in more detail, but—but he had pulled Steve into breaking and entering with him, and he didn’t want to stick around, drag both of them even deeper into this shit.  
  
Steve helped him go through the confidential files until Tony had found every last one of the alloy formulas he had a record of and deleted them, then broke into the central safe and gotten the hard copies out of it, too.  He handed them to Steve, and Steve looked at him as if confused.  
  
“Well, I don’t have pockets in the armor,” Tony said.  
  
“You’d trust me with these?” Steve said, in a low, quiet voice.  
  
“Who else would I trust?” Tony said, and it came out light, almost flippant.  He hesitated, took a deep breath.  “Cap,” he said, more seriously.  “Steve.  You’re the most trustworthy person I know.”  
  
Steve’s face twisted as if with emotion, and he looked down, his jaw and throat working.  He swallowed, and Tony thought his eyes looked a little misty.  
  
It was bizarre, to think that his trust would have such a strong effect on Steve.  
  
Tony took a deep breath and rested his hand on Steve’s shoulder.  “Come on,” he said.  “I need to see a man about a dog.”  He took another deep breath, blew it out.  “And talk to my cousin.”  
  
Steve’s hand came up, and he squeezed Tony’s on his shoulder.  “Yeah,” he said.  “You got it.”  


* * *

  
  
And sure enough, Steve was at his back, again, when Tony walked into Morgan’s office at Stark-Fujikawa, the next morning, after a very, very long night, this time in his work clothes for the Restoration Project, not in the armor.  Steve was carrying the briefcase that was the armor in one hand, the shield in the other.  They didn’t bother to knock.  
  
“Hey, Morgan,” Tony said, pushing down the spike of anxiety that had him sweating, nausea rising like a solid, choking mass in his throat.  “Long time no see.  How you been?”  
  
Morgan struggled to his feet behind his desk, barely grabbing at his cane before he sent it crashing over and balancing himself with one hand on the desk.  Tony hadn’t realized that the injuries he’d gotten when he’d tried to raid Tony’s armories had lasted like that.  
  
Dad would have been proud.  Surprise him.  Put him on the back foot.  Establish dominance.  All that bullshit.  Tony just felt a little more tired.  
  
“You’re alive,” Morgan said, with surprising venom, actually, even considering.  “I fucking knew it.”  
  
“Language, Morgan,” Tony said.  “You’re standing right in front of Captain America.  For shame.”  He could practically feel Steve’s eyeroll from behind him, and that at least had him biting back the tiniest little bit of a smile.  
  
Morgan stared at Steve for a second, his eyes widening, then plastered a slick smarmy insincere smile on his face.  “Captain,” he said.  “Good to see you again.”  
  
Steve was standing in that practically-parade-rest stance he got where he clasped his hands in front of him and just stood there, the shield mostly covering Tony’s briefcase.  “Regret I can’t say the same,” Steve said.  
  
Morgan kind of twitched, going even paler.  “Oh,” he said.  “I take it this isn’t a social visit then?”  Morgan always made Tony feel like he was talking to both Howard and some kind of mirrored version of himself, all at the same time, and it was making the back of his neck prickle, making his hands sweat, right now, when he hadn’t even thought of himself as himself for so long.  And as he gave Tony an up and down look and drawled, “Haven’t been exactly keeping up with yourself, have you?” Tony felt that feeling getting worse, had to swallow hard.  
  
But this wasn’t Dad, and Tony wasn’t the one who’d hired goons to follow Steve and try to mess up a non-profit that was just trying to help people, or the one who had put innocent people in danger.  Was he?  This time, anyway.  He didn’t have the moral high ground when it came to falling over his own feet and giving Sunset Bain what she asked for, but he had some.  Steve stirred slightly behind him, and Tony took a breath, didn’t let it be as deep as he wanted, because that would give Morgan some idea of this being difficult for him, and he didn’t want to do that.  
  
“Yeah, well, I was dead, wasn’t I?” Tony asked, with a wry grin he’d perfected after years of practice.  “I’ve got some news for you, Morgan, so listen up.”  
  
He felt more than heard Steve moving behind him, the way he’d whipped the shield up behind them, before he grabbed Tony’s arm and pulled him back against him to guard with the shield.  “What—” Tony started to say, but Steve’s angry voice ran right over anything he could have said.  
  
“What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Stark?” he said.  He twisted around and picked up something that looked like a dart off the floor and shook it menacingly in front of Morgan’s face.  “Was this supposed to kill your cousin or just incapacitate him?”  Tony spun around just in time to see some kind of pipe—like a hidden blowgun in the wall? Seriously?—retracting into the bookcases behind him before Steve spun around and crumpled it in on itself with his shield.  Doing serious damage to the bookcase in the process, Tony noticed, but that was okay.  The books had the unmistakable look of never having been opened and having been purchased just for show.  
  
Oh, how very James Bond villain of Morgan.  Seriously?  Tony sighed and turned back around.  “I guess it was the right idea to bring Cap here along as a bodyguard,” he said.  
  
Morgan had gone very, very pasty pale now, and was only visibly removing his hand from under his desk.  There was probably a secret panic button there, Tony figured.  He staggered back and sank down in his desk chair.  
  
“Does Fujikawa-san know you’ve been making these kinds of additions to his facilities in the United States?” Tony asked, in a silky, predatory voice he’d taught himself to use when he was eighteen.  He didn’t like himself very much for using it, but it crept into his voice before he could stop himself.  “How many booby traps are in here, anyway?  Should I call him up and let him know?  After all, I just came from a very, very interesting meeting with Fujikawa-san.  I think he might just be interested in hearing from me again.  We could clear up some of the details of what we discussed.”  
  
“What did you discuss?” Morgan asked, barely moving his lips.  Steve stepped up to stand very, very close behind Tony’s left shoulder.  
  
“You and I are going to have something to discuss, mister,” he said, and crossed his arms across his chest.  “What you just tried was attempted assault, and I don’t find it cute.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Morgan said, weakly.  “You can’t throw the book at me just because he used to fund the Avengers, or whatever it is.  That isn’t fair.”  
  
“He still does fund the Avengers,” Steve said.  “And attempted assault with a potentially deadly weapon is a serious crime no matter who he is.”  
  
Morgan looked like he wanted to melt through his own office chair and disappear.  Tony put a hand on Steve’s arm, not because he didn’t appreciate the defense, but because he wanted to get to the point here.  “Look, Morgan,” he said.  “This is a courtesy, really.  Because, you know.  Cousins and all that.”  
  
Morgan gave him a look like he wanted to rip his head off.  Right.  Well, pretty much what he’d expected.  
  
“I met with Kenjiro Fujikawa earlier today,” he said.  “I think I already said as much.  Well, we both agreed on a few things.  The most important one, for you, is that you no longer have a job.”  
  
“What?” Morgan demanded, half rising from his chair again.  
  
“Your pals peached on you, buster,” Steve said from behind him, with _definite_ satisfaction.  “You hired Paladin, a known mercenary, and Firebrand, a known eco-terrorist, to hunt down Tony Stark and murder him if he were to be alive.  And to perform terroristic actions in the process.  Mr. Fujikawa doesn’t like employing people possibly facing murder for hire charges—and who can blame him?”  
  
“Don’t worry, Morgan,” Tony said, feeling tired all over again at the sudden spike of fear and anger and bitterness on his cousin’s face.  “I won’t press charges. But Fujikawa-san said they’d been looking at you for a while now.  Something about selling off valuable Stark assets behind their back. And, well, it was what I wanted, and since I’m going to be partnering with Stark-Fujikawa more actively—taking back a share of the company—it’s not a majority share, mind you, not the controlling interest, but still.  I guess Fujikawa-san wanted to keep me sweet.”  
  
“You can’t just—who would take my position?” Morgan said, but Tony could tell it was all bluster.  “Head of Stark-Fujikawa in the United States is an important regional director position—you can’t just dump it on one of my subordinates with no warning.”  
  
Kenjiro hadn’t seemed to think Morgan was doing much of anything, Tony thought, and that he could be easily replaced.  But he didn’t say that.  He was pretty satisfied about how that had gone down, actually.  “Well, it so happens that I knew that Fujikawa-san has a granddaughter who’d been living in the United States for a while now,” he said.  “When I reached out to her, she indicated that she would be delighted to take over the position, but that her grandfather had not, so far, been amenable to the idea.  I talked him into it.”  It had been one hell of a phone conversation, with Rumiko Fujikawa.  Tony had felt a little bowled over, to tell the truth.  What a woman.  If he wasn’t with Steve, he would have wanted to, well, to meet up with her for more than business.  As it was, he’d just let it go after she’d turned him into a hot, blushing mess on the phone, because he had Steve, and put all his work into convincing her grandfather to give her a chance in business.  Kenjiro had given him the ol’ side-eye, that was for sure, apparently thinking that asking for his flighty, spoiled socialite granddaughter to take Morgan’s position was pretty out there, even for a notoriously eccentric genius who’d been playing dead for months, like Tony, but in the end, he’d agreed to it.  Tony got the impression it was just to keep Tony satisfied and on board and making designs for the company, and also because he figured he was giving Rumiko enough rope to hang herself with, but hey, Tony figured that if Rumiko wanted the position, it was up to her to prove herself to her grandfather.  That was all the getting in between them he was up for at the moment.  
  
But he had a feeling Kenjiro wasn’t going to know what hit him.  Rumiko was something else, and Tony had always had a good eye for talent.  He’d be surprised if she didn’t turn Stark-Fujikawa USA into a roaring success, honestly.  
  
“You gave it to _Rumiko_?” Morgan sounded flabbergasted.  “That little—ditz?”  Tony had the idea that he’d been about to say something a lot less mild, but that Steve had flexed his biceps from behind him and glared it out of him.  
  
“Well, we’ll see how she does,” Tony said.  “I for one am prepared to bet on her.”  
  
“And listen, mister,” Steve said, and it was a growl, one so deep and low that Tony almost jumped, and wouldn’t have been surprised to see Morgan’s desk shaking from the vibrations.  He took two steps forward and slammed his hands down onto Morgan’s desk with so much force Tony half expected to see it crack.  “Iron Man isn’t the only one who has Tony here’s back.  You try to kill him—you try to even _inconvenience_ him and you’ll answer to the Avengers.  And, more specifically, to me.  Do you understand that?”  He was looking into Morgan’s face with the kind of sharp, focused intensity that Tony knew first hand made you just want to collapse in a heap and agree to whatever he wanted on the spot, because those pure blue eyes and that pure certainty were so hard to deny on any level.  
  
“God, okay,” Morgan said.  “Just—get out of my office.”  
  
“C’mon, Cap,” Tony said, tugging on his shoulder, gently.  They’d terrorized him enough.  He was sure Morgan was going to call Fujikawa-san literally as soon as they were out of the office and demand to know if anything they’d said was the truth, but Tony also knew enough about Kenjiro Fujikawa to have no fear that he’d back down in the face of Morgan.  He’d seemed like he’d been looking for an excuse to get rid of him for a long time already, to be honest.  “Well,” he said.  “I’ll leave you to it, Morgan.  And you’d better leave Lake Leigh alone.  And the Restoration Project.  I’m going to be going back to New York, if you’re looking for me.  At least for the next little while.  If you have a problem with me, you can look for me there.”  
  
It was outside Stark-Fujikawa’s U.S. headquarters when Steve turned to him, finally uncrossing his impressive biceps, swallowed hard, and said, “Tony, you—you don’t have to come back.  You know that, right?  All of this—I mean, I can see why you wanted to clear all this up with, uh, with Morgan, but I’m sure that with enough gag orders from Stark and enough, well, pressure from the Avengers he won’t tell anyone you’re still alive.  You don’t have to—I mean, I just want you to know, all right?  I know you—you talked it all over with Mr. Fujikawa already—but even if you just wanted to be Tony Stark and not Iron Man, that would be all right.  I promise.  And I’d—I’d want to stay with you.”  He swallowed hard, cheeks flushing, but he met Tony’s eyes.  Of course he did.  But Steve almost never stumbled over his words like that—almost never hesitated that much.  Well, except in bed, that was.  
  
Tony just seemed to have that effect on him, he thought wryly, casting his mind back over the last few weeks.  
  
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and blew it out, then reached out, laid one hand on Steve’s arm.  He didn’t want to be too demonstrative, in case anyone was watching—Morgan, more of Tony’s old villains Morgan might have dug up from who knew where, the paparazzi, whatever—but he needed to touch Steve in that moment, to feel his warmth, the solidity of his big, warm, strong form under his hand.  
  
“What you said to me,” he said, and swallowed.  “That I built the Avengers.  Well, that I—I helped, I mean, really, if you think about it, that’s more of a realistic way to look at it, but. Okay.  It really—it meant a lot to me, I guess,” _oh, shit, Stark, don’t fucking cry_ , he thought, blinking rapidly to keep the stinging out of his eyes, the thickness back out of his throat.  “And I thought, well, maybe.  I mean.  I’m going to be haunted by—by Tony Stark, and his legacy, and the things he built no matter what.  His—my—inventions and past.  And I might as well be the guy who gets to say how that goes.  There’s no point to, to cutting myself off from the good things.  I mean, is there?  I—I let myself have you, and you were great.”  He swallowed hard, and it hurt, and he knew his eyes were wet as he looked up at Steve.  “So.  Yeah.  I mean.  I do want you to—to do that tribunal thing you were talking about.  I think I’d—I’d feel better, whatever you all decided.  But I do want to come back to the Avengers.”  He swallowed, hard.  And see Jarvis again.  And Jan.  And Thor.  God, he’d missed them.  He’d missed all of them.  “I think I’m done running, for now,” he said.  
  
Steve’s eyes were shining as he looked at him.  His face was lit up.  Glowing was not a strong enough word.  “Boy, do I wish we were back at your place right now,” he said.  “Because then I could kiss the living daylights out of you.”  He picked up Tony’s hand in his big one, covered with his red leather glove, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.  “Tony,” he said.  “Thank you.  Thank you so much.  This just—thank you.”  
  
“Damn, Steve, come on,” Tony said, and he knew at least one of the tears had escaped, rubbed his free hand roughly across his eyes.  “I should be the one thanking you.”  
  
“Nah,” Steve said softly, and his eyes were so full, so soft.  “I think we should probably be thanking each other.”


	11. But I'll Be Seeing You

After he’d said his goodbyes in Lake Leigh—which was more than a little awkward, once everyone realized Eddie Chaney was really Tony Stark, but he wasn’t going to lie to them (he had to tell the Restoration Project about the new, favorable contracts he’d set up for them with Stark-Fujikawa, and their newly increased funding from the Maria Stark Foundation, though he didn’t bother to tell them that he also planned to support them directly once he was back in control of his finances, they’d find out in time, and Pam had cried and given him a big hug, and, honestly, so had Carl, though Tony was pretty sure that was more because of the twenty thousand dollar check he pressed into his hand)—it was time.  It felt like it was time.  They headed back to the mansion.  
  
Tony swallowed hard as they pulled up in front of the mansion on Steve’s bike.  It was weird enough pulling up in front of his childhood home on Steve’s ancient hotshot motorcycle, in a motorcycle helmet—though the ride had been, well, one hell of a ride, him pressed against Steve’s broad warmth the whole way back and feeling all that power between his thighs.  And the motorcycle’s vibrations, too.  But then there was the rest of it—he’d left them in the lurch, to fight without him.  He’d gone off to hide his head in the sand.  What if none of them wanted to see him at all?  How could he blame them for that?  
  
“Stop worrying so loud,” Steve said from behind him, as he swung off the bike.  “I can practically hear you.”  His big, warm hands came around, over Tony’s shoulders, and he unbuckled his helmet for him before he leaned in, pressed a kiss to the side of Tony’s jaw as he pulled it off his head, right against his newly neatened beard, the crisp line of facial hair.  His hair was still too long, but there was only so much you could do on short notice. Now that he was doing this being Tony Stark thing again, he wanted to do it right, see his own stylist to get a decent haircut, and his appointment was still a few days away.  
  
“How am I supposed to react when you do stuff like that?” Tony sighed, letting himself lean back against him for a just a moment, letting him soak in that warmth, the feeling that Steve was there with him, that Steve somehow, incredibly, loved him, just for a moment.  
  
“Well, I like it when you react just like this,” Steve murmured in his ear.  “Relaxing back against me—letting me hold you—I gotta say.”  
  
“Sap,” Tony said, but he was smiling even as he turned away.  He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Steve’s cheek and was thrilled to see the way he flushed pink and ducked his head at the gesture, looking back up at Tony through his eyelashes.  Tony raised his hand, caressed Steve’s cheek, smiling at the way Steve smiled, so soft and so—wonderful, almost bashful, his eyes full of love and affection, and then turned back toward the mansion.  
  
“All right,” he said.  “Here we go.”  
  
He didn’t even get into the mansion before Jan was there, running down the stairs.  “Tony!” she shrieked, in a voice they could probably hear in Rhode Island.  “Oh, my God, Tony Stark, I can’t _believe_ you made me wait for you like that!  We were all so worried, I swear!”  A moment later, her arms were around his neck, and she was hugging him tightly, squeezing so hard Tony could hardly breathe, and Tony would have sworn crying on his shoulder.  
  
“Jan,” he said.  “Oh, God, Jan, I—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have left you guys hanging like that—it was just, you know me, what’s coming back from the dead without a little extra drama, am I right?”  He could hear the nervous tightness in the energy in his own voice and cursed himself.  Babbling _again_ , Stark.  
  
“Oh, shush,” she said, pulling back away so she could look him in the eyes, at the same time wiping tears out of her eyes with a finger as she smiled, a bit watery and overcome, but still that big beaming smile that was pure Jan.  “We were just worried about you, that’s all.  How are you?  Are you doing all right?  Steve wouldn’t tell us anything, the rat.”  
  
“Hey,” Steve said.  
  
“Just because I got him to promise me,” Tony said.  “You know how he is.  He always keeps his word. And—And you don’t have to worry about me.  You know that.  Right?”  
  
“Do we not?”  It was a booming voice Tony would have recognized anywhere, and he looked up to see Thor smiling and coming down the steps of the mansion, too, his hammer in his hand.  “For thou art one of us, and verily, we dost worry greatly for thee.”  
  
“Well, I didn’t mean to give anyone early gray hairs, I swear,” Tony said, and he knew he was grinning like an idiot.  He turned back to Jan, and smiled.  “Forgive me, fair lady?”  
  
She smiled and shoved at him.  “Oh, you,” she said, but then she was taking his face in her hands a moment later, peering up at him.  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she said, more softly.  
  
“Getting there,” Tony told her, and it actually felt honest for once.  “Steve helped a lot, I promise.”  
  
Steve’s hand squeezed on his shoulder.  “Jan,” he said.  “Thor.”  
  
“Oh, what am I doing?” Jan exclaimed, and grabbed Tony’s hand.  “Come on, everyone wants to welcome you back!”  Tony let her drag him along, giving Steve a bemused glance, but Steve just chuckled and followed behind them.  And then Tony was being caught up in Thor’s embrace and squeezed until he could hardly think—or breathe—and that was a little distracting.  
  
It turned out that Tony’s return was basically an excuse for a party.  There were—well, a _lot_ of current Avengers or reserve Avengers in the mansion, and they all seemed to want to say hello to him—Hank, Clint, even Natasha was there, and Carol; it was so good to see her.  Tony didn’t have much time to catch up, and she seemed distracted, but it was so good just to know she was all right.    
  
Even better, Rhodey and Pepper were there.  They’d been waiting for him just inside the mansion, and sure, Tony had dropped in on them before he’d gone to ruin Morgan’s month, made sure all the business details were set up, it was just so damn good to see them again without the pressure of a crisis.  Pep teared up, again, just like she had last time, and hugged Tony almost as hard as Thor had, pushed her head in against his shoulder.  Tony had talked to her, of course, just like he’d talked to Rhodey, on the phone, since he’d gotten back, and seen her in person, about twice, but—but it wasn’t the same.  Not at all.  He found himself trembling, his throat thick and his eyes stinging, too, and when she pulled away her eyes were red and her face blotchy. "Happy sends his love, too," she said. "He says he'll be here tomorrow, 'whether you like it or not, boss'," she added in a passable imitation of Happy's voice.  
  
Rhodey put his hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezed, but then he was pulling Tony into his arms, too, grabbing on tight and ruffling his hair, and Tony’s eyes felt even hotter, and he wrapped his arms tight around Rhodey in return.  “Thanks for having my back, Rhodey,” he muttered.  
  
“C’mon, Tone, it was a pleasure, you know that,” Rhodey said, his own voice sounding a little thick, and then, as he was pulling away, in his ear, “About time you made a move with Steve.  Fucking finally.”  Tony was laughing as he straightened up, even as he had to rub at his face to get some composure back.  
  
It was after that that the party got started, and it was a hell of a good time, definitely.  It was just so good to see everyone again—Tony felt like he hadn’t been letting himself think about just how good it would be, how good it would be to be back here, because he’d been so afraid it would be bad, too, would remind him of everything that had happened.  But at least right now, it wasn’t; there were too many people who wanted to talk to him, to say hello.  But it was exhausting—and bewildering, when he’d been expecting there to be at least a little resentment, and when he finally extricated himself from the party he felt like he’d been to one of the wilder clubs he’d gone to in his early twenties.  
  
Except a lot better.  It had felt a lot better, warm and so—so uplifting that his whole chest and stomach still felt light and fizzy and sparkling.  But still.  His head was spinning, and he took a moment to catch his breath.  
  
Besides, he was pretty sure they’d been waiting until he left to break out the alcohol, and he wanted to give them a shot at it, no pun intended.  
  
That was where Jarvis caught up with him.  “Master Stark,” he said, stopping in the hall.  
  
Tony’s breath stopped in his throat.  “Jarvis,” he said.  “I—I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was alive.”  He was starting to feel like a broken record with that, but Jarvis, more than anyone, deserved a heartfelt apology.  
  
“I am just glad you are still with us,” Jarvis said with a wistful smile.  “Believe me.”  
  
“Yeah, no,” Tony said.  “I—I should have told you.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t because—well, because I thought you’d tell Steve, if there was a good enough reason to, and I was too—too out of it to figure out if that was likely or not.  But I should have trusted you.”  He swallowed hard.  How had he not trusted Jarvis?  Now, here, all of a sudden, it seemed like an egregious crime, an utter betrayal of the man who had practically raised him.  
  
Jarvis swallowed, looked away, then back at him, and when he spoke again, he spoke slowly.  “I know you had your reasons, sir,” he said, “and I understand them.  Perhaps more than you know.  I was witness to all of what happened, after all.  Perhaps had I been in your shoes I would have done the same thing.”  He swallowed again.  “But I … missed you so terribly, and I mourned you, and I wish so very much that I could have done something to ease your burden, anything at all.  I wish very much that you could have told me, anyway.  And that I could have helped you, my boy, in any way that these old bones could have been of use.”  
  
“Jarvis,” Tony said, and he could hear it, how his voice trembled, how it came out choked.  His chest felt tight, tight and aching, like he’d suddenly been hit so hard on the inside, against his ribcage.  “I—you don’t just have to live for me, you know.  You could have—I mean—”  
  
“I know that, Master Stark,” Jarvis said.  “But you know I am proud to serve here, to serve the Avengers, and I always shall be.  But more than anything I am proud to serve you.  More than I ever was to work for your father, to tell the truth.  And, if I am to tell the truth, I have always thought of you as much more than . . . an employer.”  
  
Tony’s throat felt thick.  “I am so sorry,” he choked out, and then Jarvis’s hand was on his shoulder, and Tony was stumbling forward into his arms, wrapping his arms around him and pulling tight, and his throat felt thick and his eyes wet.  “Same goes for you,” he said, and he wondered if the reason he’d never thought to call Jarvis ‘Dad’ was just because Howard had ruined it.  He didn’t know.  But Jarvis wasn’t dad.  He was Jarvis.  He was better than dad.  He buried his face in Jarvis’s shoulder, just for a moment, and tried to get control of himself again.  “I should have trusted you.  I knew I should have told you.”  
  
Jarvis’s hand rested in his hair, again, just for a moment.  “You must know I have always been secretly, quietly proud to think of you as my son,” he murmured.  
  
“Oh, God, Jarv, you’re going to leave me bawling on the floor and then Steve’s gonna think I’ve had another emotional breakdown all over him, when we only just got back,” Tony said thickly, trying to laugh it off as he rubbed one hand across his eyes, took just a little step back.  
  
Had Jarvis just said he was proud of him?  Jarvis had just said he was proud of him.  Oh, wow.  He was practically thirty years old, and Jarvis just—Jarvis saying that—it almost had him breaking down all over again.  
  
Jarvis patted him gently on the back.  “What you need is a good meal,” he said, then gave Tony another look.  “Or two,” he amended, and with not much more than gentle pressure on the back of Tony’s shoulder and the gentle insistence of his presence, he managed to get Tony moving in the direction of the kitchen.  
  
“Already trying to fatten me up,” Tony said.  “I’m going to have to hit the gym right away, too, aren’t I?”  He was still sore from all the exertion a few nights ago.  Steve had done his best to help him stretch it out, and that had helped, but, well, he needed to get back in condition if he wanted to be Iron Man again.  That much was perfectly clear.  
  
“I am certain Captain Rogers would think both points were all to the good,” Jarvis said.  
  
“Wow,” Tony said.  “You really do know me too well.  Already using Steve against me, huh?”  
  
“I have been doing that for years,” Jarvis said, and got Tony sitting down at the table before he started moving around the kitchen, opening cabinets and rifling through drawers.  
  
“Um,” Tony said, and swallowed.  “That’s—that’s true.”  Jarvis had always seemed to know about his infatuation, his stupid little crush, and then his unrequited feelings for Steve, but they’d never exactly discussed it flat out before.  When Jarvis put a cup of coffee on the table in front of him, all he could do was thank him and curl his hands around it.  Jarvis squeezed his shoulder, just a gentle little press of one hand, and Tony almost jumped, almost spilled it.  He looked up at him, startled, but Jarvis was already heading back to the food he’d pulled out of the cabinets already.    
  
It could have made him feel guiltier, that he’d left Jarvis so shaken up as to be that demonstrative, and it did, more than a little, but more than anything else it left him feeling warm.  Feeling like Jarvis would forgive him, that things would be all right again—that it would all be all right, somehow  
  
Steve had been right, he should have told Jarvis.  
  
Tony took a sip of his coffee, then cradled it in his hands, pressed the warm ceramic of the mug to his cheek.  Steve.  
  
_Spit it out, Tones_ , he thought.  The voice in his head for that thought sounded a lot like Rhodey.  
  
He swallowed, again, took another swallow of his coffee, then set it down.  “About Steve,” he started, not quite certain how to say this.  
  
He wasn’t totally prepared for the way Jarvis immediately whipped around, eyes fixed on him.  “Yes, Master Stark?” he said.  “About Captain Rogers?”  
  
He was like a mom hoping her son had finally brought home a girl who could give her grandkids, Tony thought fondly and a little nervously.  “Yeah, so,” he said.  “I, um, I mean.  It isn’t just that Steve convinced me to—to come back home.  I, um.”  
  
The plate landed in front of him, with a loaded Italian sandwich on it.  A moment later, Jarvis took the seat next to him.  “Go on,” he said.  
  
“I might be dating him,” Tony said, and even he could hear that his laugh sounded nervous.  “Jesus.  You’ll give a guy a complex.”  
  
Jarvis smiled, just a little.  “Not my intention, I assure you,” he said, then smiled more widely.  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, simply.  “I believe Captain Rogers cares for you deeply.  And I hope, very much, that he can make you happy.”  
  
“He does, Jarv,” Tony said, and smiled into his cup of coffee.  “He really does.”  


* * *

  
  
The party went on for a while, but eventually Steve left the rest of them behind and went looking for Tony.  He wasn’t surprised he’d disappeared early on—after all, he’d barely made the decision to come back at all; he’d barely been able to take being reminded of his own name a few weeks ago.  Hell, even a few days ago.  Steve figured it had to be a little overwhelming.  Tony might have decided to come back, and he knew Tony was damn determined, but that didn’t make it as easy as that.  
  
Tony had decided to come back.  Tony had decided to come back!  Steve still felt giddy, flushed with happiness, with just the most dizzying joy, lightheaded with it, whenever he thought about it.  He hadn’t even let himself hope for it for so long, and then Tony had been there, looking into his eyes and telling him that he wanted to come back, be an Avenger, be Iron Man again, sincerity written all over his face, and now they were here, and—Steve still couldn’t believe it.  Like he’d told Tony it would, it felt like a dream, a dream that he still couldn’t believe had come true, still couldn’t believe it was actually happening.  
  
He found Tony in the kitchen, and he felt a little bit guilty stealing him away from his time with Jarvis, but he was glad to see how comfortable they looked with each other, as if they’d talked something out, and Jarvis practically shooed them out together.  Steve found himself blushing and smiling, practically stammering helplessly in the face of it.  
  
“Did he just shoo us off to bed together?” he asked, laughing a little breathlessly, when they were out of the kitchen, together on the stairs.  
  
“Yeah, well,” Tony said, smiling a little sheepishly himself.  “I might have told Jarvis that we’re, uh, that we’re together.  I hope that’s okay?”  He looked suddenly anxious.  “God, Steve, I hope that’s okay.”  
  
“Of course it’s okay,” Steve said, immediately.  He was smiling even wider, just at the thought of Jarvis knowing, Jarvis knowing and reacting like _that_.  He hadn’t quite realized how good it would feel to get his approval to date Tony, to be with him.  He reached down and took Tony’s hand in his, tangling their fingers together, and squeezed.  
  
Tony squeezed back, biting his lip and looking down.  He looked so—almost bashful, sheepish and touched and flustered, and Steve couldn’t resist leaning in and kissing his temple, just to see his lashes flutter, feel his skin go a few degrees warmer.  
  
“So,” he murmured, letting his lips brush Tony’s hair.  “Do you want to head off to your room?  Mine?  Get in some alone time?”  He was determined to make Tony’s first night back in the mansion a good one, in whatever ways he could.  
  
Tony looked a little hesitant.  “Is the party still going on?” he asked, looking back.  
  
“Yeah,” Steve admitted.  “But it stopped needing you there a long time ago, trust me.  Now they’re just enjoying having an excuse for a party.”  He grinned.  “And tomorrow I’ll come down bright and early and declare a team training exercise, just to teach them not to get so hungover.”  
  
Tony grinned.  “You’re a cruel, cruel team leader, Captain America,” he said.  “Um.  Am I—am I still on the bench, or should I show up?”  
  
Steve reached up, touched Tony’s cheek gently.  “Still on the bench, yeah,” he said.  Tony had requested that, after all.  “Pending the results of our assessment of what happened.  But you can always show up to train with us.  Don’t have to be on the team to do that, you know that.”  
  
Tony nodded.  To Steve’s relief, he was still smiling a little.  “Then I will,” he said.  “But I guess,” he swayed a little toward Steve, into his torso, the press of his body solid and warm, “that means we should get to bed early, huh?”  
  
“Hmm,” Steve murmured, let his head dip down to press a soft, wet, warm kiss to the back of Tony’s neck.  “Yeah, I think I could be convinced to do that.”  He smoothed his hands down Tony’s sides, feeling his still sturdy, but too-slender waist under his shirt beneath his palms.  
  
“What would the others say,” Tony murmured.  “Captain America feeling me up right in the hall.  Goodness gracious, Steve.”  
  
“You love it,” Steve murmured, and bit lightly at the lobe of Tony’s ear.  “And they would say, ‘Steve must love him so much, he can’t keep his hands off him.’  And they’d be right.”  
  
Tony gave a surprised sounding little choking noise and looked back at Steve, biting his lip.  Steve just grinned and kissed his forehead.  “You know where I stand, mister,” he told him.  “Now let’s just get up the stairs and in bed before someone comes out here and wants us for something.”  
  
“You make a good point,” Tony said.  His eyes were warm and soft and full of emotion.  Steve would never get tired of seeing that look in them.  He already knew it.  Never.  “So,” Tony said, and his voice was a little huskier, now, “your place or mine, stud?”  
  
“Up to you,” Steve murmured, and couldn’t resist smoothing his thumb over Tony’s bottom lip, leaning in for a kiss.  They lingered over it, soft and damp and warm with each other’s breath, and when they pulled away, Tony sighed and leaned in, buried his face in Steve’s shirt.  
  
“My room, I think,” he muttered.  “I want to get used to it again.”  Steve could feel, hear, his hard swallow.  “I want you there,” he mumbled even more quietly.  
  
“Well, you’ve got me there, fella,” Steve said, and ran his fingers through Tony’s hair, blinking quickly himself at the emotions that sent through him, tightening hot in his chest, as he pressed a kiss against the top of Tony’s head.  “You’ve got me.”  
  
Tony wrapped his arms around his neck and hugged him, dragging wet, soft, warm kisses over his neck, his jaw, pressed them against the side of his mouth, until Steve was panting, then pulled away.  “All right,” he said, and at least Steve saw him blink a little, too.  “Let’s do this thing.”  
  
Jarvis had clearly aired out Tony’s room, and his things were already put away from the single suitcase he’d brought back.  Tony traced his fingers over _Flow Your Tears, The Policeman Said_ on his desk, and his eyes looked a little misty.  He swallowed hard, thickly, then sank onto the bed, put his head in his hands, took a few long, shaking swallows.  
  
Steve sat down beside him, not too close but, he hoped, not too far away, either, and rested one hand on Tony’s back, hoping that was the right thing to do.  
  
“It’s going to take some getting used to,” Tony said, soft and hoarse, after a while.  “It feels right, to be—to be back here.  But I keep feeling—feeling so out of place, too.  No one’s mad at me, Steve.  Why isn’t anyone mad at me?”  
  
“We care about you too much for that,” Steve said, simply.  “We’re relieved to have you back.  Any feelings of anger or resentment or even annoyance are gonna take a back seat to that for now.  It’s just how it works, Tones.  Sweetheart.”  
  
Tony sighed, a long, slow, shaking sigh, pushing the air out between his lips, then closed his eyes.  He leaned over, let his face sink into Steve’s chest, and Steve moved closer, wrapped his arm around him.  
  
“I am going to build a device to help prevent mind control like that, like what Kang did,” he said.  “A screener for it.  And I’m going to have Emma Frost and Charles Xavier, if they’re amenable, help me test it.  And I’m going to build up protections in my suit—in the alerts—so if someone starts acting off we have alerts and failsafes in place.  Build up more protections you guys know and I don’t.  Make sure you and Thor and Jan all have overrides to my armor.  Maybe Carol, too.  Pep and Rhodey already do.  I am going to fix this, Steve, I swear.  I’m not going back to being Iron Man until it’s fixed.”  
  
“I know, Tony,” Steve murmured, his throat sore with the tightness, the emotion, but he was—he was so proud of him, too.  This was Tony.  This was what he did.  This was the man he loved.  He was going to make things better—build things better.  Make them all safer.  
  
It was what Steve loved to see in him so much.  So damn much.  That was his Tony, and he was just—he was so glad to see him back to having that part of himself.  Ready to fight for it, and look ahead.  Not that he hadn’t loved him without it—he had, and he always would—but it had been so hard to see Tony so defeated.  To see him shying away from the future, not eager to forge his way into it, as part of it.  He curled his arm around Tony more tightly.  
  
“I’m counting on it,” he added, and Tony shuddered against him, but Steve thought it was a good shudder.  
  
“And I’m going to—to go to my own grave, or whatever,” Tony added, “and see what the hell is up with that, whether my body’s still there, or what.  I’ve going to figure this out, Steve.”  
  
“When you do,” Steve said, with a rueful laugh, “please fill me in.  I’m serious, mister.”  
  
“I will,” Tony said, and his own chuckle sounded weak and watery.  “And—and you guys will go through the situation again, and make me sit through a blow by blow of my behavior, and I—I’ll know whether or not you really think I’m ready to be an Avenger again, at the end of it.  Worthy of it.  All of you.”  
  
“That’s right, Tony,” Steve murmured, and his voice came out thick.  “That’s exactly right.”  
  
“Okay,” Tony said, and took a deep breath.  He set his hand on Steve’s chest and pushed himself back up, looked up into his face, and there was a tremulous smile there, on Tony’s lips.  “Okay.  I can do this.”  
  
“I know you can,” Steve said, and he meant every word.  
  
“Okay,” Tony said, and he took another deep breath, and then his eyes slid closed, and he leaned in, and Steve leaned in, too, cupped his cheek, and gave him the kiss everything in his body language was asking him for.  
  
They stayed there a long time, just kissing, eventually curled up together on Tony’s bed, on top of the covers, kissing soft and slow and long and deep, and the kiss covered the whole range, everything from soft and sweet and chaste, their lips barely brushing, to their tongues curling together, deep and hot, but it stayed so, so sweet, like burning honey against Steve’s lips, like sugar on his tongue, Tony’s little panting breaths, the whines he caught in the back of his throat, his low, soft, whimpering little moans when Steve ran the heel of his palm down his spine or pulled him close or kissed him particularly deep.  Steve felt just as good as that sounded, and everything, every little noise, from Tony had him drifting higher, warmer, floaty and warm and slow so that everything felt wonderful.  
  
It didn’t turn into sex.  Eventually Tony sat up, took his shirt off, revealing Steve's dogtags, still around his neck, but Steve just used that to push him down onto his stomach, with one brief caress of Tony's chest beneath his dogtags before he got Tony prone on the bed and reached for the massage oil he’d asked Jarvis to put in both their rooms, just in case, earlier.  He warmed it between his hands and then started rubbing it into Tony’s shoulders, and Tony just groaned, soft but long, not too loud but loud enough, and relaxed into the blankets like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.  
  
Steve just smiled and rubbed deeper into his muscles.  
  
Tony was very, very appreciative after the massage, all warm softness and soft, heavy dark eyes as he wrapped his arms around Steve, swaying into him all pliant and warm and loose, kissing him and thanking him in a throaty, purring sort of voice, all rough and hoarse and husky, that had Steve blushing bright red all over, even as he persuaded Tony to join him in a bath.  
  
Tony got him off in the bath, one hand on his cock and his mouth on Steve’s, his other hand on his cheek, against his jaw, and Steve just lay there in the bathtub, Tony sprawled over him, for a long, long time, just feeling so—so good, so happy, that there were practically tears in his eyes, as Tony brushed his hair back from his face and murmured soft little words of praise, of love, of how grateful he was for Steve, how much Steve had done for him.  
  
“Least I could do,” Steve finally murmured, his face still feeling hot, with an awkward husk in his throat, in his voice.  “Now let me do something for you.”  
  
He had Tony on his back in the tub in another moment, lifted his hips with one hand under his rear, and sucked him until he came, enjoying the soft smooth hot rigidity of Tony’s length in his mouth, the way it felt rubbing at the back of his throat until he had to let it slide free of his lips or start to choke, the way Tony gasped and arched and moaned and whined and finally came with a relaxation through his whole body that left him soft and limp and practically teary-eyed himself.  They clung to each other in the bathtub for a long while before they bothered to actually wash up (and Tony let Steve wash his hair again, and Steve was so happy, felt so honored, would have sworn nothing could feel better than watching Tony go pliant and soft and fall apart in the best way for Steve’s hands in his hair, so willingly vulnerable, letting him see him so soft and sweet), and washed his for him, too (almost as good), and then fell into bed together, Tony sleepily putting Steve's dogtags back on, around his neck.  
  
Tony woke up with a ragged gasp, sometime later.  It was full dark in the room, and Steve could hear the way his heart was pounding, his breath tearing at his throat, and knew he had to help him, help Tony, before he was even fully awake.  
  
He curled an arm around Tony’s chest, pulled him close, nuzzled his face into his hair.  “You there, fella?” he mumbled, and it came out hoarse and husky with sleep, deep and low, but he felt Tony start, then shudder, long and slow, the tension start to ease out of him.  “It’s all right,” he said.  “It’s all right.  I’m here.”  
  
“Steve,” Tony breathed, and then his voice hitched.  “Steve,” he said again, a little more wildly, a little wetly.  
  
“I’m here,” Steve murmured.  “I’ve gotcha.  I’m safe, you’re safe.  It’s all all right.  You’re good, Tony.  You’re good.”  
  
Tony gave a wet, shaking, husky breath, and then relaxed back into the bed, into Steve’s arms.  
  
“Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah.  Yeah.  I think I might be.  I think I am.”  
  
Steve kissed him, and Tony’s lips were trembling and soft and warm.  Tony was back asleep in a few moments, but Steve kept himself awake despite his drowsiness, let his hand rest on Tony’s chest, just over his own dogtags, as he watched over his sleep.  
  
But Tony slept deeply and dreamlessly until Steve fell asleep himself, a few hours later, and didn’t wake up again until Tony’s drowsy good morning kiss, and his good morning along with it.  “Where’s the coffee?” he mumbled into Steve’s mouth, and Steve groaned.  
  
“I spoiled you too much,” he managed to get out as he dragged his eyes open.  “I created a monster.”  
  
“Mmm, coffee monster,” Tony agreed, and kissed him again, his eyes dancing even as he leaned in so his lips dragged soft and slow over Steve’s.  “Up and at ‘em, Captain Handsome.  You’ve got a hungover team to torture, big guy.”  
  
Steve blinked the last sleep out of his eyes, wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, and smiled up at him, at the way he was smiling, at the sparkle in his eyes.  
  
He did, and he had Iron Man here with him to do it, and Tony was smiling, the light in his eyes back, and it wasn’t a dream, it was real.  
  
They were going to make it.  They were going to be okay.  And everything was going to get better.  Everything was going to be great.


End file.
